by Sarita Leone
“He managed to bring one down. The footmen are both badly injured, but the driver held them off with Nick until another carriage appeared. Three men ran off, but they broke a leg on one. Bastard couldn’t run so we have him in the barn.”
“That is where he belongs,” Oliver said. “With the other animals.”
He was grateful when he heard the doctor’s voice in the hallway below. Nick was milquetoast white and breathing shallowly.
The notion that Nick might not survive this assault swept over him. Losing the man so quickly after he joined the family seemed an unimaginable horror, but life had taught him that not all horrors lived in nightmares. Some, like the atrocity unfolding this very night, ventured out of the shadows.
He prayed the doctor was in time to save Nick.
Chapter 11
Sleep was an elusive bedfellow, in many rooms and for every inhabitant of the manor house, as well as the Fulbright Cottage. None could get the images of a battered man from their minds, or his precarious hold on life from their nightmares.
Breakfast did not take place in the dining room. It did not occur on the flower-decked terrace, either. Anyone with an appetite took the meal in their own room. Most trays were returned untouched.
Oliver sent his parents to their rooms right after the doctor arrived. And he had the doctor check on them when he had finished with Nick’s care. Neither Lord nor Lady Gregory resisted his taking charge. In fact, they relinquished the position without any fuss whatsoever.
He had been awake the whole night. The groundskeepers had reported more than once. No uninvited persons attempted to enter the estate, but he still kept armed guards stationed at the main gate as well as the small roads leading into the surrounding countryside. Willowbrook would not be invaded. It was despicable enough that one of their own had been assaulted already.
The prisoner received care from the doctor, after Nick, his parents, then the carriage men, were attended to.
When Doctor Fairweather advised the prisoner be moved from the stable, Oliver refused. He would not shelter the man in his home. Had the estate kept pigs, he would place the criminal in the pigpen.
He’d met with the law three times already. They had found an abandoned firearm near the spot where the incident had taken place. It belonged to one of the footmen, who had already disclosed he had discharged it one time only, in an effort to kill the man who was choking Lord Grayson. Oliver was torn between applauding the man’s efforts and slapping him for endangering Nick. Had the shot struck the duke instead of the assailant, the day could be much more somber by far than it already was.
Blood at the scene indicated that at least one of the robbers had been shot. There was a city-wide alert for anyone who turned up with an unexplainable gunshot wound.
He had not allowed the physician to leave, and the man had not been inclined to do so anyhow. He had the maid show him to an upstairs room near Lucie and Nick’s apartment. Presumably, he had checked on the patient through the night.
Oliver stretched, his back and shoulders stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. His father’s desk, a huge piece of furniture, was the perfect height for placing his legs upon. His ankles crossed, he leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
The weight of the position of Lord of the Manor was heavier than he imagined it might be. How had his father carried it for so long? And his ancestors? Didn’t anyone grow weary of the burden?
And that is why the English aristocracy have sons, he thought. Dash it all—even a son could be overwhelmed by the magnitude of so many looking to him for answers. And he had none to give, which was the worst part. This morning he was no closer to learning who had assaulted the carriage carrying his sister and her husband than he had been the night before.
Will walked into the room. He was, as was his way, perfectly starched and turned out.
“Good morning.” He claimed a leather arm chair on the other side of the desk. His gaze took in Oliver’s stockinged feet, wrinkled evening wear and bloodshot eyes. “You look dreadful.”
“I feel pretty damn dreadful.” Never one to resist a chance to get in a good-natured poke, he added, “But you look as if you just stepped off the pages of the Gentleman’s Quarterly.”
Adjusting his tie, Will smiled. “Well, my wife does take rather good care of me. And my clothes.”
“Did she ever discover the Bond Street beverage, Lord Greendick?” He chuckled at the memory. It was barely two days past, yet it seemed a lifetime ago.
“Indeed, she did. And, she was not at all happy about the unpleasant odor. At this point in her impending motherhood, odors seem to be very important.” He shook his head. “What can I say? I don’t understand it, but when she turns green at the whiff of something disagreeable, I open a window.”
“Smart fellow. Well, in the end you will both be happy.”
“And you will be an uncle.”
“A very proud uncle.” Oliver already wondered how to best spoil the little one. Unbeknownst to either Will or Vivian, there was already a sum of money in trust for the babe. But that, like so many other things in life, was something best kept until the proper time.
Now was not the proper time.
He scrubbed a hand over his cheek. The bristles rasped against his palm, the sound loud in his ear. Before long, he’d have to get cleaned up.
But not yet. Waving to the tray a maid had brought just before his assistant’s arrival, he asked, “Tea? Hot chocolate? A scone? Or has Vivian fed you already?”
The other man reached for the tray. He poured a cup of tea, added some cream, and then handed the cup across the desk. He took it, as well as the blueberry scone that was sliced and buttered before being pushed across the blotter toward him. He hadn’t thought he was hungry, but the food looked appealing.
Will served himself. They ate without speaking. So close they didn’t feel compelled to fill the silence with words, they enjoyed the light repast.
Finally. “Any news of Nick? Vivian is sick with worry over him—and over Lucie, too. She will be here in short order, I am sure of it. She would have accompanied me, but I refused to allow it. She needs her rest, so I sent her back to bed with the promise she not move for at least one hour.”
He checked his watch. With a rueful smile, he pushed the watch back into his waistcoat pocket.
“It is now five minutes past the prescribed hour. I have no doubt my wife is, at this very minute, dressing.”
“You are probably right. And, it is a good thing that she comes over. While I have guards at the gates, I would feel better if we were all in one place for the time being. Until we solve this mess, anyhow. And, Lucie must be completely done in. It will be a calming influence to have Vivian, with her soothing violet eyes, nearby.”
“Yes, they are rather soothing, aren’t they? But about Nick? How is he faring?”
The truth was difficult to admit. “The doctor says that if he makes it through the next two or three days, he has a chance of survival. The worst is, he was pummeled about the back so dramatically that his internal organs may be damaged. He is…good God, I can barely say it, but he is bleeding. From…”
“No.”
“Yes. If he lives, who knows if he will be able to be a real husband to my sister. The doctor said as much, but I will not tell anyone else. Will, this is between us. No one must know that we may have the last Lord Grayson lying upstairs, hanging on to life by a thread. No one.”
“You have my word, of course. My absolute word.”
Chapter 12
Amy did not imagine anyone would be about when she crept down the wide front staircase. She had been up and down the steps so many times, she knew to avoid the seventh step from the bottom because of the squeaky tread.
With the horrid turn of events last night, everyone should still be resting after their late nights. She hadn’t gotten to sleep until well after midnight, but vivid dreams and a queasy tummy stole her rest. It was just as well; this day’s errand requ
ired no witnesses.
Her hand was on the door latch when she heard voices emanating from the library. There, too, she had spent many hours, so she saw clearly in her mind’s eye one man behind the desk, and the other in the comfortable leather visitor chair. She preferred the window seat to any other spot in the large room, but it seemed highly unlikely either man would choose that secluded nook.
The last thing she wanted to do was eavesdrop, but there was no way to avoid it. Her only concern was escape—undetected—but when she heard the words “hanging by a thread” she gasped. And, the house being so quiet and she being suddenly startled, she forgot that the door hinge squeaked. Loudly. Opening the door too quickly brought about the annoying—and revealing—sound.
Will appeared in the library doorway. He lifted his eyebrows in surprise before regaining his composure.
“Good morning, Miss Spencer. It is rather early to be up and about, isn’t it?”
Before she could reply, Oliver stood beside him in the doorway. They were night and day, the assistant starched and pressed, and the duke done to a turn.
Even in his stocking feet, Oliver was a full head taller than the other man. And despite his dishevelment he looked every inch the peer. He frowned when he saw her.
“Are you well? It seems you should be abed, considering last night’s unfortunate excitement.” He dashed a hand over his cheek, then through his hair.
He went around the other man and walked to where she stood. The front door hung open, until he closed it.
“I am fine, thank you.” She looked from one to the other; neither looked at all rested. “Is there any word on Nick’s condition? I have prayed all night he is already being restored to health.”
She could not imagine how Lucie must feel right now. The ordeal itself was bad enough but to have one’s husband so thoroughly beaten was beyond understanding. And she had heard the melee, seen the blood…
Amy shuddered.
Oliver placed a calming hand on her shoulder. “We are all praying. He made it through the night, and that is a fine start. Speaking of starts, where are you off to so early this morning?”
Lies. Being enamored with Lyle Roarke had taught her the finer side of lying, not that she condoned the practice but when forced into a corner she had become skilled at conjuring a half-truth. It was the way of the world, Lyle had said, to bend the rules to suit one’s purposes.
It was wrong, she knew that. But if she told the truth about so many things, the repercussions would be endless. And her ruination would bring the Spencer name low—too low. It was all a woman had—her name, which gave her a place in polite society if she were at all fortunate. Losing that place? Not if a bit of lying could prevent it.
“I could not sleep so I think a walk will do me good. Some fresh air, and all that. If you will excuse me—”
“I cannot allow that, Amy. Until we discern what happened last night, everyone needs to be mindful of the danger.” Oliver sounded weary, but firm. “You cannot go walking about by yourself.”
“My lady’s maid is occupied. I cannot pull her from her duties. And, we are all mindful of the danger—but it was on the road beyond the gates, not in the gardens. I am certain I will be perfectly safe.” The pool of lies she told grew every time she opened her mouth. Soon she would drown in it if she didn’t take care.
“The danger is on the road, always, but until I am certain this was a random attack rather than a targeted endeavor, we will take precautions.” He turned to Will, who had been standing near the staircase listening. “I will accompany Miss Spencer on her morning constitutional. We will take a turn about Mother’s rose garden, so if I am needed, that is where I shall be.”
****
A man knew when his company was not wanted, but Oliver did not care. If Amy—or any female, for that matter—stubbornly refused to see it was safer to remain indoors until matters were sorted out, she would get a bodyguard. One life hanging in the balance was one life too many. And if feathers got ruffled, well, that was fine with him, too. Feathers eventually smoothed, even on the pluckiest birds.
She ignored him as they walked toward the rose garden. It did not matter; just being outdoors cleared his head. The long night left him with a dull ache in his skull. Had he been inclined to take one of the doctor’s fixatives he might chase it away sooner rather than later, but there was no pain great enough to lure him into taking medicinal draughts.
“You do not need to do this. I am perfectly capable of walking on my own.” Her voice turned from stubborn to sweet. She looked up at him and batted her eyelashes. “Why, you were probably with me when I took my first steps. This is silly. You are a busy man, and I am keeping you. Really, I can manage to stroll without your attention.”
She had a smile that would melt another man’s heart, but he had seen how well Amy’s machinations worked on members of his sex. He had watched her ply men with ego-inflating phrases borne on that sweet, lilting voice many, many times—and all to her great success.
He was not as prone to falling for her sweetness. Not that he didn’t appreciate a lady’s honeyed talk, but he wasn’t going to be swatted aside like some annoying insect.
“Oh, I am well aware of just how capable you are, both in the walking and dancing departments.”
They reached the closest rose garden and took a turn near his favorite blooms. Yellow and peach, filling the air with their captivating perfume, these were the roses he had picked for his mother when he was a child. The thorns were deadly sharp, but the flower made the danger worth the risk.
Oliver stopped beside a heavily laden plant. Flowers dripped from the stems in such profusion they nearly concealed the greenery beneath. The gardeners shaped these bushes into mounds, so they looked like yellow hills. He chose a bloom, bending the stem until it broke. Using his fingernail, he cleared the stem of thorns.
Bowing, he presented his companion the rose. She accepted with a sigh, placing it near her nose. A deep whiff, and a smile.
“Thank you.” She took another whiff, looking lost in thought.
“A sovereign for what lurks behind those eyes.”
She did not look up. “Nothing…”
He did not rush her, choosing instead to feign nonchalance and sniff several blooms on the bush. It was large, so the flowers hung at his shoulders. The garden itself was maze-like, with long, meandering lanes between rows of scent and color. An artists’ dream, affording countless inspiring views.
“A shared burden is half as heavy.” He did not look at her, and said the words in a gentle tone.
“I don’t think I can share this.”
Oliver looked up. She still stared at the rose, so he placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face. When he met her gaze, he saw so much sorrow it nearly broke his own heart. All the years he had an association with the sisters, he had admired Amy’s independence. She was fun and adventurous, always smiling and determined not to allow their lack of parental guidance to bring her down. She was very dissimilar to her clinging, nervous sister and that appealed to him.
But now, with the tired, worrisome frown on her pretty face, she barely looked like the woman he knew.
“You can share it. And who better, than someone who has known you for so many years? Why, we are practically related.”
She tried to look away, but he leaned closer. The rose, held before her in one white-gloved hand, brushed the front of his jacket.
“Oliver, I cannot…there is nothing…oh!”
Tears came in a rush, so he folded her in his arms and held her close. The moment was entirely unexpected, and had anyone witnessed their improper behavior it would create a scandal. But society be damned—he could not let her suffer without offering a caring shoulder to lean upon.
He smoothed a hand over her back, soothing her the way he would a weeping child. Words eluded him, so he remained silent, hoping Amy would speak when she was able. The tears subsided to sniffles, then tapered off, and still they stood. It was sev
eral moments before he realized the woman in his arms had ceased crying, but seemed in no hurry to leave his embrace.
It was completely unexpected when it occurred to him that he did not mind holding her in his arms. He had never thought to do so, but it was a pleasant turn of events.
Chapter 13
Amy tried to concentrate on her needlework, but she was making a bumblebroth of things. The sampler, with its cheery birds and butterfly border, dangled tangled threads of every color of the rainbow. It just showed that concentration when wielding a needle and thread was somewhat necessary.
She put the fabric aside. It would take more patience than she possessed today to unsnarl the mess.
Miranda had been staring at the same page of her book for an hour. She knew, because the vellum pages whispered when turned, and there had been no whispering since the book was opened.
Vivian sat beside Lady Gregory on a wide, comfortable side chair. It was large enough to accommodate at least three women, or one man and a woman, so the two had lots of room to spread their sewing accessories on either side of them. An equally wide footstool kept their toes off the floor.
As was her norm, the older woman worked an intricate pattern on brocade. Many of the chair seats in the rooms of the manor were covered with the fine needlework she created. A lifetime of stitchery produced countless beautiful mementos. She steadfastly pulled thread through fabric, her motions precise.
Vivian glanced at the older woman many times as she worked the baby garment in her hands. Having been employed in a Stropshire dress shop, bringing fabric to life was second nature to her. Today’s little robins’ egg blue bunting was getting hearts and swirls around its outer edges. The colorful splashes raised the item from functional to fun.
Only Lucie was absent. She hadn’t left her husband’s side once. The doctor was still present, going between the coachmen, the prisoner and the duke. His expression was somber, and he did not share details with the women, so they were left to wonder what went on.
