Back then, she would have bitten her tongue rather than speak her mind, for fear of being deemed unladylike. Now the words flew like barbed razors, and she hoped they cut wherever they landed. “What’s the matter, Lord Amesbury? Am I supposed to ooze gratitude like a ninny after you playact the savior? Unlike you, I remember that we’ve done this once before, and you only impersonate a hero. It’s a convincing act, I’ll give you that. But I no longer simper, and you’re not a gentleman.”
Turning to Lord Carlyle, Lottie said, “I thank you for your timely assistance. Please stand aside.”
Finally, as if puzzle pieces fell into place, Amesbury’s eyes widened with recognition. “Lady Charlotte.”
Lottie cocked her head. “I’ll accept nothing less than ‘Your Highness’ from the likes of you. After all, you made me royalty, and the title rolls off the tongue so nicely—the Paper Doll Princess. Oh, so witty. I’ve certainly never been able to forget it—nor the humiliation of having thought you were a friend.” Pouring sarcasm into her voice, she bent her knees in a mocking dip of a curtsy, one hand holding the wadded rag to her wound. “For that, sir, you can go to the devil.”
As she swept from the room with her head held high, she heard Lord Carlyle chuckle and say, “Damn. If that was round one, I’m putting five pounds on Lady Charlotte.”
When she marched out the front door of the inn, there was an odd empty quality to the stable yard now that aid had been dispatched to the wreckage site. “Is there any more to be done?” she asked the lone hosteler shoveling horse droppings into a pile.
“Nothing, milady. The big gentleman took care of everything. A few blokes should return with news soon, and the doctor will be along shortly.” He tipped his cap to her before returning to work.
Well, damn. Was there anything worse than waiting? If only she’d been able to ride back with the men to help her servants. At least that would be doing something.
Lottie entered the cool, dark stables and found Samson, the carriage horse who’d served her so well, resting in a stall. She ran a hand down his neck to his withers, then grabbed a fistful of hay, letting him nibble from her fingertips. The soft muzzle hairs tickled the pads of her fingers as if he were petting her too.
Willing her tension away, Lottie leaned against the stall and let the barn scents and sounds work their therapeutic magic. Barns smelled of productivity, hard work, and home. Over the years, barns had been more welcoming than ballrooms. Horses wouldn’t mock your mistakes. Sheep didn’t care if a dress was a few years old or if a woman wore breeches.
This madcap mission she’d undertaken was foolish but necessary if she was to have any control over choosing her own future. If Father had his way, she would be announcing the banns now with Mr. James Montague, youngest son of the Earl of Danby. Having never met the man, and with no desire to do so, she’d dismissed a match between them and thought no more of it. Father had other ideas though, deciding that this—her unmarried state—would be the first thing he took notice of since they’d buried her brother and mother. While it might have been easier to cave to Father’s wishes, the high-handedness of his demands rubbed her the wrong way. If she absolutely had to marry, she’d do so on her terms, thank you very much.
So here she was, on her way to find a husband before her father’s deadline of the beginning of the Season. While summer wasn’t a logical time to husband hunt in London, it was ideal when one desired a spouse who wouldn’t want to spend any time with her in the country. She needed a city gentleman, preferably one who’d contentedly let her go on her way once the vows were exchanged and a tidy living hit his bank account from her dowry. If she failed to find a fiancé before the House of Lords convened in late November, she’d be forced to marry Mr. Montague. Those were Father’s terms.
Either way, she’d avoid the Season—a blessing, considering her advanced age and the utter disaster of her debut.
In the late spring of 1812, while London reeled from the assassination of the prime minister, Spencer Perceval, the ton had obsessed over one piece of gossip that gave them reason to laugh—her. And they didn’t know the half of it.
They didn’t know she’d been caught in the mob on the streets that had formed after word of the shooting spread. More people than she’d ever seen in one place gathered, cheering the actions of a desperate murderer. A frantic chaos had ruled that crowd, creating a danger she’d never experienced before. After being separated from her footman, she’d tried to push against the bodies to find her way to a quieter street. Each second that passed birthed more tension in the air—until a firm hand had grasped her elbow, and the excessively large man who’d danced with her at parties and perched on the tiny chairs in her drawing room had bullied through the throng, guiding her to safety. He’d oozed confidence then too, as his brawny arms anchored her to his side.
There’d been a moment when their eyes locked and the world stopped. She’d swear to it. When he kissed her hand at her door and promised to call the next day, it had felt loaded with meaning, as if his promise held more than mere words.
Instead, she’d waited for a visit that never came. And the day after that, the assassin John Bellingham and the Paper Doll Princess dominated the newspapers. For a while, she’d shared notoriety with a murderer.
Samson’s forelock was silky under her hands when the big horse pushed into the caress, shoving away the echoes of shame these memories brought. “Those saddle lessons you had last spring saved the day, my fine fellow.” The bay whuffled a response, making her smile. “Extra oats for you. Maybe even a treacle swirl on top. You earned it.”
Through a rough timber window, Lottie spied the two men she wanted to avoid walking across the courtyard to where a stable boy waited with their horses. The coast was clear. Time to get a room from Mrs. Pringle, wash, then await the physician.
Lottie tucked a sticky curl behind her ear and wrinkled her nose. She needed a bath as much as she needed her next breath. Perhaps Mrs. Pringle had a soap fragrant enough to induce amnesia and erase all memories of blood and screaming horses. Although, anything would be better than her current odor. Le parfum du tragédie was never en vogue. A shaky sigh tried to become a sob, but she stifled the sound behind a dirty fist.
Not now. Just a few more moments of pretending all was fine. Once alone, she could let herself cry. Sharp pains all over her body hinted at how many times she’d tumbled around inside the carriage as it careened off the road toward the trees. As if her aches weren’t enough, Lord Amesbury’s appearance had created another layer of emotional chaos. At least she’d finally said her piece. That was a small comfort.
Tears threatened. The need to rant hammered at her composure. To rehash what she could have said when faced with the man who’d treated her so callously during her first Season. But more than anything, she wanted privacy so she could fall apart.
Blowing a lank curl out of her face, Lottie fought for a thin thread of control, squeezing her good eye closed as she counted her breaths. Inhale, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. The pressure in her chest released, and her mask of composure slid back into place. She must not forget why she was London bound. The scandal of her debut wouldn’t be repeated. This time, she’d play society’s game by her rules.
Chapter Three
The doctor’s sewing skills rivaled those of a seamstress. Although he wasn’t quite finished, a glance in a hand mirror showed small stitches that would eventually heal and disappear into her hairline.
“You have commendable skill with a needle, Doctor. Does your wife ask you to handle the mending? You would turn out a beautiful seam in no time.” Lightening the mood didn’t distract her from the pain, as she’d hoped. His flat expression displayed no emotion, which didn’t help either. What the physician lacked in personality, he made up for with ability. Better that than a charming quack armed with bottles of mystery tonic and foul river sludge.
Each prick of the needle burned instead of stabbed, as if her body’s sensitivities were s
o overloaded, her brain could no longer accurately categorize individual injuries. She held her tongue against more comments and tried to stay still.
Wishing to be anywhere else, Lottie closed her eyes. In her mind she saw herself at home, at her desk in the sitting room, sunlight streaming through the multipaned windows as she made lists for the week’s work. Organizing and prioritizing the needs of the tenants or scheduling the planting and harvest in each field soothed her. An especially painful stitch sent daggers of sensation through her skull, pulling her from the mental retreat.
The inn’s maid arrived at the door as the doctor finished packing his case. Lottie invited the girl in as the physician left to await the arrival of Darling and Patrick from the carriage rubble. A moment later, hot water from the servant’s buckets splashed into the tub, letting off swirls of steam into the tiny room.
The young woman asked, “Will there be anything else before your bath, milady?”
Just the thought of a bath was enough to make her smile. “I don’t think so. I’m very much looking forward to being clean.” Sitting on the side of the bed, she was tempted to lean back and fall into the softness of the pillows, but she refused to give in to the urge when layers of grime covered every inch of her. Hot water first, then a lie-down. Checking the maid’s progress, Lottie said, “Now that I think of it, would you be so kind as to move that small table beside the tub? If the pitcher and soap are between the tub and fire, the clean water jug will stay warm. It’s just a small thing. Thank you.”
Exhaustion swept over her. From what she’d been able to piece together at the scene, she thought one of the horses had spooked, snapping a leather line and jarring the carriage. They’d hit a rut in the road at high speed, already teetering from the horse wanting to shy in a different direction. Bad luck. Awful timing. Then shuddering carriage walls cracking and splintering apart. A dirty floor that became a roof, then a floor, then a roof again. Panicked cries from the horses and Patrick’s answering call, cut short by an agonized scream. His leg. Lord, his leg. Darling’s ashen face, her eyes appearing too large for her skull when she saw the coachman. The disorientation when Lottie lost and regained consciousness at some point.
With closed eyes, Lottie counted footsteps as a parade of sloshing buckets filled the large basin by the fire. One hundred thirty steps. Ten buckets of water thus far. This had been the longest day, and it wasn’t even noon. At last, the maid emptied a final bucket, and Lottie stood to savor a moment of silence.
Relative silence. The Boar and Hound bustled with activity. Sounds of commerce and travelers filtered up through the floor. The four walls were her haven from the world as the fireplace blazed cheerily by the washtub, chasing away the shadows in the room.
The earlier waterworks that had threatened to overwhelm her in the stables loomed. Years of experience had taught her the dangers of stifling feelings for too long. A blinding headache with nausea and sensitivity to light and sound would be too much to bear after this morning.
There might be no preventing the pain. But when it hit, she could be clean. If that was all she could do to control the situation, then so be it. A desperate need to get out of the filthy traveling gown overruled the tangled feelings from the day. Although her fingers were clumsy and swollen from repeated impact in the carriage, she managed the tapes and hooks without help. Thank goodness for simple country clothes.
At last, fire-licked warmth from the hearth caressed bare skin. The idea of touching such a grimy dress, even to hang it on the hook by the door, made her wrinkle her nose, so she left it in a pile on the floor.
Zesty lemons teased her senses when she uncorked the vial of bath oil. It smelled of everything she wasn’t. Clean, crisp, and fresh. As she sank into the bath, her muscles protested before loosening under the soothing heat. The water stung her scraped skin, already marked with red and blue splotches. Over the next several days, those would become a colorful road map of abrasions and vivid bruises. What a miserable day.
She’d been in the tub for only a few moments when a knock interrupted her pity party. Lucia Darling poked her head in the room. “We’ve arrived, milady.” Lottie’s maid closed the door, then knelt by the tub, gently grasping Lottie’s chin to tilt her stitches toward the light. “Once the swelling in that eye goes down, you’ll clean up nicely.”
“I’ll be fine. How are you? Is Patrick awake?” Lottie draped the heavy curtain of her hair over one shoulder and reached for the soap.
“A few bumps. I’ll surely feel it tomorrow. Nothing compared to Patrick’s leg. He awoke for a few moments before the men arrived, but passed out again when they loaded him in the wagon. The doctor is getting him settled in a bed now,” Darling said.
“The physician proved competent with a needle.” Lottie gestured toward her own forehead. “Let us pray his bone-setting abilities are as impressive.”
“Aye.” Darling picked up the discarded clothing, hung it on the hook, then recorked the vial of oil by the tub.
“Darling, maybe you should sit. You have your own bruises and bumps to care for.”
Darling ignored the suggestion. She inspected the torn traveling gown with a critical eye—as if they’d launder and mend the thing. “Mr. and Mrs. Pringle seem nice. The rooms are clean. We’ll be comfortable once the men return from the coach with our things.”
“The only drawback I can see is our proximity to Lord Amesbury.” Lottie wrinkled her nose as if the name itself smelled foul. “We had words downstairs. Now I’d prefer never to see him again.”
“Lord Amesbury? Here? Hell on a broomstick, this day is one awful surprise after another.” Darling finally sat in the chair near the tub.
Lottie pushed the topic of Amesbury aside with a wave of her hand and a spray of lemon-scented droplets. “We can talk about him later. I’m most concerned about you and Patrick. I can see you’re worried. Would you prefer to be with him right now?”
Darling shook her head, but the jerky movement revealed her distress. “My duty is here, milady.”
Of course she would say that. “If you wish to keep him company, then go. Let me know what he needs to be more comfortable.”
Darling dipped a shallow curtsy, then darted from the room.
Alone again, Lottie skimmed the pitcher beneath the surface, then tipped her head back. Although she attempted to avoid the suture site, water hit the stitches, eliciting a grimace. Clean hair and body would be worth the momentary discomfort, surely.
When the water grew cool, she stepped from the tub before realizing her problem. Her clothes were with the carriage, strewn about the roadside. Lottie eyed the bloody rag formerly known as her traveling dress hanging by the door. No.
The toweling linen wrapped around her ample curves, with a gap of several inches. Lottie scowled at the skin between the ends of the towel. The bedding would have to do.
Wrapped in patchwork colors worn smooth by years of washings, Lottie wrote a letter informing her father—or rather, her father’s steward, Rogers—of the day’s events. Recounting the facts did nothing to loosen the knot of emotion lodged in her chest. Another note went to her godmother, Lady Agatha Dalrymple. The older woman expected Lottie at her London home this week, but under the current circumstances, the likelihood of that happening was nil.
Even if Patrick’s leg set without complications and there weren’t any unforeseen traveling delays, a swap of staff and carriages would still take several days. She would not leave Patrick here alone. Once he was safely on his way back to Stanwick Manor, she and Darling would continue on to London. Her father would call her weak for prioritizing a servant over her travel itinerary, but her father wasn’t the one making decisions, now was he?
A delay was a better outcome than how the day could have ended. Multiple lives might have been snuffed out like a guttered candle, with such swiftness there would have been no chance to sputter or flare back to life. Just gone. Dead instead of broken. Lottie rubbed at an ache between her brows, then set the letters
on a table by the door.
A familiar knock pulled her from gloomy thoughts. Her maid closed the door, then slumped against it. Darling seemed to stare at nothing for several seconds before blowing a lock of hair from her face.
Patrick’s leg must be either set or lost. No third option. Darling’s expression fit both outcomes. Clenching her fists around the quilt’s corner until her knuckles shone white, Lottie braced for the worst. “How is he?”
Tears slipped down Darling’s cheeks in twin trails. “He’ll keep the leg for now. As long as it doesn’t fester.”
“That’s a mercy. Better to gain a limp than lose the leg.” Lottie slumped onto the edge of the mattress.
“The doctor gave me ground willow bark for Patrick’s pain. I’ll add it to his tea. He also gave us laudanum, but the stubborn cuss refused to take any. I have it in case Patrick relents,” Darling said.
“I can’t imagine how hard this ordeal has been for him or for you.” The two had been spending more time together in recent weeks, which made Lottie wonder if a romance might be brewing.
“He fainted when the doctor moved the bone.” Darling swiped under her nose with the heel of her palm, then dried her hand on her skirt. “I haven’t heard from Mrs. Pringle about our trunks. You need clothes.” She shuddered as if just noticing the condition of her gown.
“I hope it won’t be much longer. I’m sure you want a bath and a change of clothing as well.”
“Would you mind if I sat with Patrick until they arrive with our things?”
“Of course not. I’m glad you can be there with him. I doubt the doctor would let me in the room. Especially with my lack of clothing.” Lottie nodded toward her quilt.
“I’ll report back about our trunks momentarily.” Darling snagged the letters on the side table. “And I’ll have the innkeeper post these.”
Wrapped in the blanket, Lottie flopped on the bed. Each time her eyes closed, her mind filled with fragmented memories of the accident. The aches in her body throbbed as a reminder of the morning, just in case she found herself tempted to think it all a bad dream.
Any Rogue Will Do Page 2
