Fortunate Wager (Newmarket Regency Book 3)

by Jan Jones

  “Would you care for tea, my lord? Or coffee? I can fetch it over so you do not need to run the gamut of the tray.”

  “No,” he said with more force than politeness. “I can think of nothing I would like less than tea at this moment.”

  Goodness, he really had been bored. How intriguing. “I am sure that’s not true,” said Caroline.

  “I do not wish for tea,” he repeated through set lips.

  “Oh yes, that I comprehend. I only meant there must be many things you would like less than tea. Worms, for instance. I used to have such a penchant for worms when I was younger, but whenever I was summoned to Mama’s sitting room and brought a handful to show her and her guests, they were not at all appreciative. Eventually she stopped sending for me. Honoria was far more tractable.”

  The corner of his mouth relaxed. “Miss Caro, you are a hoyden.”

  The pit of her stomach did a tumbler’s flip. “Did I give you permission to address me thus?” she asked, feeling her face heat.

  Horror flashed across his face as he realised his unguarded familiarity. “I beg your pardon. I cannot imagine how I came to... I fear I must have been conversing too freely with your brother.”

  Caroline pushed down the unwelcome flutterings in her breast. “It is of no import. As a penance, if you are determined to go, may I request you take your friend with you? His conversation is a little too polished for us country-reared girls.”

  A tiny frown. “You do not like Giles?”

  “I am sure he is all the crack. It is simply that we are, on the whole, not used to London manners.”

  Her companion glanced across at the very moment Selina raised her eyes to Mr d’Arblay’s laughing profile. Her heightened colour filled in what Caroline had left unsaid. “It seems I must apologise again,” he said grimly. He crossed the room and within a very few minutes he and his friend had left.

  “My dear,” said her mother in a voice full of meaning, “here is Mr Anstruther wanting tea. Would you fetch him a cup and keep him company a while?”

  Caroline turned. Mr Anstruther was florid, barely literate and fifty-five if he was a day. “Certainly,” she said, and when they were settled on the bench, confided, “I am reading Mr Pope’s The Dunciad at the moment. Now do give me your opinion of the verses. I long for a nice deep discussion about them.”

  “A most amusing afternoon. Did you learn anything?” asked Giles as they strolled away from Fortune House in the direction of the High Street. He tipped his hat to a comely nursemaid shepherding a line of children. The nursemaid blushed and giggled.

  Alex was still smarting from Caroline Fortune’s reproof. “I learnt that you are not safe outside the confines of your own circle.”

  Giles smoothed down the sleeves of his coat. “Nonsense. I tell every lady I meet that my home is a ruined castle with insufficient income to make it habitable. If they still insist on throwing themselves at me, it is their own lookout.”

  “The average very young lady imagines ruined castles are romantic, and that all you need to live on is love. It is unkind of you to trifle with their emotions, Giles.”

  “Ho! I don’t notice you worrying overmuch about breaking would-be amours’ hearts when you dish out your famous set-downs.”

  “Their affections are brought on by a perusal of Debrett’s Peerage. I do not believe I have ever raised a lady’s expectations myself.”

  “Then how do you claim to know so much about their sensibilities?”

  Alex halted incredulously. “Good God, Giles, is it possible you have forgotten my sister’s appalling escapade last autumn?”

  Giles looked back, puzzled. Then his face cleared. “Oh, that. But it came off all right. Lizzy’s safely married to Marshall and t’other fellow vanished from Society overnight.”

  “And scandal only averted due to Sally Jersey happening on Lizzy in the George at Stamford, bundling her back to town and claiming she was with her the whole time!” He resumed his progress towards the White Hart. “Which is why I am kicking my heels here. Do you suppose if I penned her a description of a race-meeting, she would give up expecting me to pinpoint anything shady? Quite apart from the crowds and the jostle around the betting posts, it is rank impossible to keep tabs on which rider is talking to which ruffian.”

  “Exactly what I have been saying! And you’re missing all the fun by doing so. Easier by far to reckon up who’s collecting winnings next day.”

  Alex eyed his friend’s ingenuous expression. “Which would be Harry Fortune, I take it?” he said drily.

  “Did I say so?”

  “As it happens, I could bear to know more about one of his riders - and where else he works. I thought I had him this morning but he gave me the slip.”

  “Is that why you were so ill-tempered at breakfast? I thought it was the dreadful supper last night. Nothing simpler. Get one of the grooms to tail him.”

  “As I said before, I have no wish for anyone else to know our business. One loose word in the wrong ears and it will all be for naught.”

  Giles shrugged. “Your obligation, your decision. I prefer to make life easy.”

  “This is easy. I shall simply get to Penfold Lodge earlier still tomorrow. See which direction he arrives from and work backwards from there if I lose him again.”

  Giles looked frankly astonished. “Good God, Alex, I had no notion that life with a conscience entailed such sacrifices. I shall think of you on your vigil whilst I am cosily tucked up in bed.”

  Friday. Caroline came awake in the near-darkness and listened to the patter of rain on her window. She had to shin very carefully indeed down the wet ivy, and then skirt around the paddocks so as not to leave betraying tracks in the grass. It was as well she was being circumspect. As she approached the back of the Penfold Lodge stable-block, her eyes took in an out-of-place shadow. There seemed to be something mounded against the wall. How peculiar. What could it be? As she crept warily forward, the mound stirred, making her heart race with alarm. The shadow took on form and shape: it was a man, slumped and doubled over, his clothes when she gingerly touched him soaked completely through with rain. It must be one of the hands, she supposed, passed out with too much liquor. Flood would have something to say about that! Yet still she hesitated. Something was not quite right. The sodden jacket had felt as if it was made from superfine, not working-man’s cloth. And though Caroline was in no doubt that Harry had had his share of sleeping off excessive libations in ditches and other out-of-the-way places, there was enough definition in the shadows to see that this man had straight, dark hair, not close-curled red.

  Then who was he? Caroline crouched and took a firmer grip to lift him clear of the rough stone wall. As she twisted him to peer at his face, her fingers met a thick stickiness. Blood! She recoiled instinctively. The man groaned. Caroline dropped him in panic and ran for Flood. She heard his head meet the cobbles as she skidded across the slippery yard.

  Flood’s opinion when told of the injured man in a barely coherent stammer was that if the fellow didn’t have concussion before, he certainly would have now and all to the good if so. “If he’s not one of ours, it’ll serve to keep him quiet until we get him to the roadside,” he said. “Rogues falling out, I don’t doubt - and we don’t want that sort found on our land.”

  Caroline heartily concurred. She grasped the shoulders of the man’s jacket ready to drag him towards the archway. The sudden motion, however, caused him to heave; she only just managed to turn his head away from her clothing before he cast up his accounts. “Devil take me for a lummox,” he slurred. Caroline gave a small cry, her heart careering wildly, and dropped him again.

  “That’s it,” approved Flood as the unfortunate man’s head once more found the cobbles. “Keep the skulking varmint under.”

  “He isn’t a skulking varmint,” hissed Caroline in alarm, all her nerves jumping from this new discovery. “It is Lord Rothwell. I recognised his voice. We cannot leave him in the gutter.” No wonder the cloth of his
jacket had been so fine. But what was he doing here?

  Flood whistled, his face troubled in the shadows. “Happen you’re right, lass. Robbery, I suppose. Best put him in an empty stall. I’ll go for the doctor and you just keep tapping his head against the ground until I get back.”

  “Flood!”

  But the felled man was heaving again and it was as much as they could do to haul him inside once he had finished. The effort certainly exhausted his lordship. He lay sprawled and comatose on the ground, only the rasp of his breath indicating that he still lived.

  “I suppose it is at least dry in here,” muttered Caroline worriedly as Flood left. She gnawed her lip and sank to the floor of the stable to wait. She was horribly nervous, her pulse far much higher than normal, but the familiar, musky scent in here comforted her as it had done her whole life. Flood had doused the lamp and she heard the horses moving in the darkness. She settled a little, wishing with all her heart that she was on one of them, riding towards the Heath rather than waiting here next to an unconscious, badly injured gentleman.

  Whatever had Lord Rothwell been doing in their yard? That he had been assaulted - presumably for gain - seemed clear, but why would a common assailant have been here in the first place? Or had he followed his victim and dragged him up from the road after coshing him? What would be the point? It was nonsensical. Caroline’s brain, usually sharp and analytical, was in danger of overheating with so many questions. Lord Rothwell stirred, his head shifting restlessly on the hard-packed ground.

  Instantly the timbre of Caroline’s fears took on a new direction. Dirt in the wound could be fatal. She knew that from Bertrand. Where was Flood? Why weren’t any of the stable-hands awake yet? Taking a deep breath, she inched sideways and eased Lord Rothwell’s head into her lap, the better to steady it. His skin was clammy and his clothes were wet through. She ought to at least ease his soaking shirt away from his skin and slide her own muffler around his neck and down next to his chest if she could. As she essayed this tricky task, she wondered anew why he had not been wearing a greatcoat against the rain. Had he perhaps run mad? He had seemed sane enough the previous day. She could just make out an ugly area of deeper shadow on his temple. If she had only thought for two seconds, she could have sent Flood for water first so she could clean the gash. Except, of course, she wouldn’t have been able to see.

  Then Lord Rothwell spoke, and Caroline - remembering with a start that she was dressed in male clothing - was glad it was dark. “Nanny?” he said querulously.

  “Hush,” said Caroline. “Hush and wait for the doctor.”

  “It was no one’s fault,” he said. “The bridge just broke. It was no one’s fault.”

  Caroline’s heart skittered harder than ever. Dear heaven, he was reverting to childhood. What ever damage had she done dropping him so many times? “Yes, it was an accident,” she said hastily. “Do lie still, my lord.”

  She saw his eyes fly open in alarm. “My lord? Is Papa here?”

  “No, no, he’s gone,” she said, even more hastily. “Lie still, Alexander. Go to sleep. Wait for the doctor.”

  “Nice Nanny,” he said, and pushed himself further against her belly and her thigh.

  A strange sensation surged through Caroline’s body. She could hear her heart pounding and had to force herself to breathe deeply and calmly. “Nice Alexander,” she replied.

  Incongruously, he giggled. “You always say that.” Then he sighed and she knew he’d fallen asleep.

  Caroline continued to take long breaths. How had she known what to say? Had she pulled the right response from his thoughts, the same way she often knew what was troubling a horse? She stifled a near-hysterical laugh. Lord Rothwell in his right mind would be highly offended at being compared to a horse. And then she wondered at herself again. Tucking her scarf around his neck and cradling him like this in the darkness, it was already quite difficult to think of him as Lord Rothwell. He was Alexander who had loved his nurse and who’d got into childhood scrapes and who had never let anyone else take the blame. An honourable child.

  “Nanny?” he murmured again. His arm wrapped around her leg.

  She stroked his hair. There was grit in it where he’d fallen. She finger-combed it, teasing out the dirt. “I’m here, Alexander. Go to sleep now. You’re safe.”

  Alex drifted in and out of a hellish, pain-filled limbo. The bridge across the Long Meadow lode. They’d been told not to use it. They knew it was unsafe. But Giles had dared him, laughing, running across and back himself over the swollen water to prove there was no danger. It was simply the adults making their usual fuss about nothing. Alex had always envied Giles his quicksilver lightness and his grace. Taller and heavier, he could hear the pounding of his boots on the wooden planks as he used brute force to try and match his friend’s speed. And heard the crack of wood splintering. And felt the blow as his temple caught the rail. He knew again the icy shock of water surging inside his collar and up his sleeves. He panicked at the weight of his sodden clothes as he tried to struggle free.

  “Hush,” said a soft voice. “Stop fretting. You’re safe. Rest now.”

  Nanny, thought Alex, fastening on this one detail. Lovely, comfortable Nanny. His neck was warm where he rested on her. He pulled her hand under his cheek and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By the time the doctor arrived, everybody was up and the sky was getting light. Caroline’s lap was numb and soaked through with the damp from Lord Rothwell’s clothes. She was anxious about him waking and seeing her like this, even more anxious about him not waking, and could most definitely have done without a recital of all the nasty head wounds the stable-hands had ever encountered. They were worse than a parcel of chaperones for looking on the black side.

  Doctor Peck had known her all her life. He evinced no surprise on seeing her at this hour, in this place, dressed as a lad, with a sopping wet unconscious man’s head in her lap. He nodded to Harry then examined Lord Rothwell. “Dear me. Considerable loss of blood and several abrasions to the skull. Nasty. Going to take very careful nursing.”

  Caroline’s stomach turned over, thinking how many of those bumps on the head had been due to her. Oh, please let him pull through this. Don’t let her have him on her conscience. “Will we need a cart to get him to the White Hart, then?” she asked.

  “The White Hart?” said the doctor, looking up from his patient in surprise. “No, no. With care and a length of canvas and four of your stoutest grooms we should be able to get him indoors without further damage, but any greater distance I won’t answer for.”

  Caroline hoped, she really hoped, that she did not turn as pale as she felt at these words. They would have to look after him here? She would have to look after him here? But what if he never recovered? She eased Alexander’s head onto one of the men’s coats and stood up, wincing at her cramped muscles. She rubbed her forehead, thinking aloud. “I must get out of these clothes. Give me ten minutes start, Harry, and then send word to Fortune House for me to help Mrs Penfold urgently with the nursing.” She looked at the men. “You’ll need the canvas horse sling. Ask one of the maids for a clean sheet to put on it, and request the back parlour to be made ready for an injured noble. You can carry Lord Rothwell into there through the long windows from the terrace.”

  Scroope the butler was so put out by a message from Mrs Penfold requesting Caroline’s presence on an indefinite errand of mercy before he’d even got his coat on, that he failed to put up any of the objections he would have fabricated given enough time. Caroline seized the moment and was gone without delay, leaving instructions for her clothes to be packed and sent on.

  Doctor Peck and the grooms had only just started across the Penfold Lodge lawn, transporting their sling with exaggerated care. He rolled his eyes at her. “Sort out those fools inside, will you?”

  Caroline flew indoors and issued simple, crisp instructions, with the result that in a very short space of time a bed had been brought down from upstairs, a ma
id was making it up, there was a clear path to it from the terrace door, and the rest of the furniture was standing in a surprised manner around the walls.

  “Capital,” grunted the doctor. “Easy, now. Miss Caro, would you...”

  But Caroline was already there, cradling Lord Rothwell’s unquiet head as the four sweating grooms suspended the sling over the mattress. Harry positioned himself at his lordship’s feet.

  “Away,” said the doctor. The sling was gently removed and the three of them lowered the injured man to the bed. They took a collective breath. “And now,” said the doctor, “hot water, towels and a clean nightshirt and perhaps I can get to work on him.”

  This time when Alex awoke, he still felt fuzzy, woolly-headed and ill, but a great deal more comfortable. The room was shaded. He tried to turn his head, but was instantly nauseous. “What...?”

  A firm, cool hand on his brow stopped him moving. “You are at Penfold Lodge,” said a voice. “You were found outside the stables and my brother had you brought indoors. The doctor says you are to remain as still as possible, not get agitated and only to drink barley water.”

  “The devil he does,” muttered Alex weakly.

  “He also says you are far from out of the wood and if we do not have you in a delirious fever by nightfall then he does not know his own calling.”

  “You...” He swallowed painfully. “You are a very singular nurse.”

  “It has always served Harry to know the truth. And if you do become fevered, you won’t remember I told you, so it won’t matter either way.”

  This was too difficult to work out. “I should like a drink, if you please.”

  “Very well, but you are not to move. Open your lips and take this straw. Now sip very gently or you will... There, what did I tell you?”

  A cloth dabbed the liquid away from where he had spluttered it out as he’d coughed. The incautious movement made his head feel as if it was on fire.