My Fair Gentleman

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Ivy paced the confines of her bedroom, wanting desperately to talk to someone yet not wanting to be around anyone at all. She could go to Nana, she supposed, but how to tell her that the Earl of Stansworth had kissed her most thoroughly in the library, where anyone could have seen them—and she had most thoroughly enjoyed it. Every moment of it. And then he had sat scandalously close to her at the soiree, and she had wanted to climb right into his lap and thread her fingers through that silky black hair.

  Her mother was out to tea, and her father was likely at Tattersalls. Perhaps if things had been different between Ivy and her mother, she might have appreciated her as a confidante. Yet even if Caroline hadn’t ruined any chance of talking with her mother about illicit kisses in libraries, their relationship had never been one to accommodate such familiarity.

  Ivy needed to collect herself in a hurry because she was due to meet with Sophia in thirty minutes to tour a building that would possibly suit their needs for the girls’ school. She called herself a fool a million times over for reliving the kiss repeatedly and told herself to think of something serious.

  A frantic banging on the front door pulled Ivy from her thoughts, and she frowned, leaving her bedroom and peering over the front landing as Farrell, the butler, opened the door.

  Pug stood on the other side, white as a sheet and soaking wet from the rain, his eyes wide and terrified. Ivy dashed down the front stairs as Farrell was preparing to close the door on the boy, disgust clearly stamped across his lofty features.

  “What is it?” Ivy asked, shouldering her way past Farrell and pulling Pug into the house.

  “Accident in the park,” the boy told her, a tear escaping his eye and rolling down his cheek. He wiped at his eye impatiently and scowled. “Master Jack got thrown from his horse.”

  Ivy’s heart thudded hard in her chest. “Where is he?”

  “Constable in the park saw the horse throw ’im, brought ’im home.” Pug clenched his hands together. “’E’s awful bad, Miss. Face is a mess, an’ ’e won’t wake up.”

  “Please get my wrap, Farrell, and have the coach brought around,” Ivy said and turned back to Pug. “Has the doctor been summoned? And Sophia?”

  “Doctor is on ’is way, an’ I came to you first.” The boy shrugged miserably. “Didn’t know what to do.”

  Farrell helped Ivy into her cloak, and when the coach pulled up in front, Ivy took Pug by the arm and led him out to it. The ride to the earl’s town home was silent, and Ivy began to feel sick from the knot of fear that sat like a stone in her stomach. She needed to get word to Sophia and Mary, but she would assess the situation herself first. Sophia would not appreciate being sheltered, but Ivy was unwilling to alert Mary yet, to burden her with questions but no answers.

  The walk to the front door, past a serious Watkins, and then up the stairs to Jack’s suite seemed to take an eternity. Ivy’s feet felt leaden, and the more she tried to hurry, the more she feared she would never reach him. Tossing her cloak off when she reached the dressing room, she entered the earl’s bedroom breathless and very much afraid.

  Clarence Fuddleston and Lord Anthony Blake stood at the bed, and Blake had a towel at Jack’s head, gingerly working at it. Ivy grew dizzy as she neared the bed and saw that the towel was liberally stained with dark red patches, and she clutched the large foot post. She couldn’t see Jack’s face, as Blake had it obscured by the cloth.

  She looked at Fuddleston with wide eyes. “What has happened?” she asked him, her voice barely escaping the knot in her throat.

  Fuddleston was as pale as Pug. “The stable master examined the stallion, found him bloodied from a small nail wedged into the saddle. The man swears he didn’t see it when he put it on the animal. Possible, I suppose, if it was angled just right. If his Lordship was riding forward when he left and then settled back into the saddle later at the park . . .”

  Blake held the towel at the back of Jack’s head, his jaw clenched. “I need another cloth,” he barked and glanced up at Pug, who ran to the doorway where Mrs. Harster, looking faint, stood with fresh towels and a basin of water. Blake dropped the bloodied towel to the floor in a heap and grabbed the fresh one Pug handed him.

  Ivy’s stomach turned and she felt decidedly nauseated when she got a good look at Jack’s face before Anthony Blake covered it again with the towel. Ivy wasn’t sure how he even knew where to dab; Jack’s face was a red mess and she was glad he was, for the moment, unconscious.

  “Lady Ivy, perhaps you might be more comfortable in the dressing room,” Fuddleston said to her gently.

  Ivy swallowed and shook her head. Thinking of Nana’s steely resolve and utter disregard for Society’s good opinion, she removed her shawl and laid it across a narrow bench at the foot of the bed. “I am here to help,” she said and unbuttoned her cuffs, rolling back her sleeves. “What shall I do?” she asked Blake.

  Blake glanced at her, his face grim. “Until the doctor arrives, I’m not entirely certain. I do know we need to stop the bleeding. Perhaps you might hold the cloth here while I place another behind his head. Fuddleston, perhaps you should go question the staff, particularly the outside servants, about whether they have seen anyone lurking around the stables. You have Lord Stansworth’s ear these days more than anyone, and it falls to you to discover what is happening in this household.”

  Fuddleston nodded and turned to Mrs. Harster as he retrieved his suit coat from the floor where he must have flung it. “You remain here, then, to fetch anything his Lordship might require,” he told the woman, who nodded faintly.

  Ivy tried to reach Jack from Blake’s side but found the bed too tall and Blake too broad. She frowned and crossed to the opposite side of the massive bed, where she made use of the step stool and then crawled awkwardly across the expanse of mattress. Blake stared at her for a moment before raising a brow and the corner of his mouth. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself, but Ivy couldn’t help but blush.

  “I do hope you’re not one for gossip, my lord,” she said to Blake as she situated herself near Jack’s shoulders and gingerly took the edge of the towel.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, my lady,” Blake told her and glanced at Mrs. Harster over his shoulder. “More towels, if you please, and find that cursed doctor!”

  The housekeeper scurried from the room with wide eyes, likely grateful to have a purpose.

  Jack’s poor face was battered, and Ivy cringed as she began wiping away at the worst of the blood covering his cheeks and forehead. “I need a bit of water,” she murmured as Anthony Blake situated the bulk of the towel behind Jack’s head. The metallic smell of blood very nearly overwhelmed her, and Ivy swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

  Blake reached for the basin of water that Mrs. Harster had carried into the room; he held it above Jack’s chest as Ivy dipped the corner of the towel into it. Wringing it out, she winced at the pink tinge the water had taken on and bit her lip as she again plied herself to the task of determining the extent of the wounds on Jack’s face.

  The very fact that he was so very still as she cleared the smears and patches of blood had her blinking back burning tears. Nana would definitely not cry, she reminded herself as she cleared her throat and decided to pretend she was a nurse. What was a little blood, after all? And he would be fine—of course he would. No need for emotional outbursts or fits of sadness.

  Blake gingerly put a thumb to Jack’s eyelid and lifted it to reveal the staring, but thankfully intact, tawny-colored eye. “Looks as though his brow took the worst of it,” he murmured as blood pooled around Jack’s eyebrow. Blake hastily moved his thumb and pulled at the towel, applying pressure to the gash. Ivy felt light-headed and her arms tingled; it took every ounce of Nana-channeling she could manage to keep from tipping over on the bed herself.

  Ivy continued to clear the smudges around the earl’s chin and cheek while Blake held the cloth in place over the cut on the brow. “What is happening here, my lord?” she said, looking up at Blake. He sto
od very close, and Ivy registered the fact that her mother would have an apoplectic fit if she could see her daughter perched atop one earl’s bed, inches from another. Suddenly all of the world’s rules and regulations meant little as she wondered what sort of danger was afoot in Jack Elliot’s house.

  Blake’s flat, almost angry expression was at odds with the one he usually showed the public. The mocking, arrogant, jaded lord seemed to have been left at the door, and in his place stood a man very concerned for the welfare of a friend. “Someone wants him dead,” Blake told her. “He is going to need a guard by his side all hours of the day and night.”

  Ivy smiled a bit. “He will hate that.”

  “Yes, he will.” Blake studied her for a moment, and Ivy found herself hard-pressed to maintain his direct gaze. “What is he to you, then?” Blake asked her.

  “I am helping him and his family ease their way into Society.”

  “And lying to yourself.”

  Ivy blinked at the bluntness. “I’m sure I do not know what you mean, my lord,” she said stiffly.

  “We are close enough associates by this point, Lady Ivy, to dispense with formalities. You will please call me Anthony—we did share a dance once, after all.”

  Ivy’s lips quirked despite her mounting fear for the man whose face she held in her hands. “One dance, my lord, and that was under duress. Proper young ladies do not do well to be seen overlong in the company of rakes and rogues.”

  “You wound me, Ivy.” Blake lifted Jack’s head slightly and pulled the towel from the pillow, substituting a fresh one.

  Ivy swallowed again at the sight of the spent cloth that dropped to the floor with a sickening thunk. “He’s losing too much blood.” Her heart climbed into her throat. An alarming thought forced its way into her consciousness and she glanced at the empty doorway to be sure the doctor hadn’t yet arrived. “We must not let Dr. Featherstone bleed him with leeches. Jack was most adamant about it the last time.”

  Blake frowned as he loosened Jack’s cravat and opened the topmost buttons on the once white shirt. “He has had some kind of bad experience with leeches?” he said.

  “I do not know, but it stands to reason, with him losing so much blood, it hardly makes sense to take even more from him. It isn’t as though he has poison in his system this time.”

  Blake glanced up at her. “It does stand to reason. And—”

  “What is happening? Ivy, we had an appointment, and then I receive word that there has been an accident?” The demand came from the doorway; Ivy looked over her shoulder to see Sophia standing there looking a mixture of fear and fury. “Why did you not send for me immediately?”

  Sophia entered the room, shedding her outer garments as she approached the far side of the bed and climbed up next to Ivy. To her credit, she gentled her approach as she looked at her brother lying still under Ivy’s and Blake’s hands.

  “I didn’t want your mother to worry until we knew . . . well, until we know how bad it is,” Ivy told her, her heart twisting at the anguished look on Sophia’s face. Ivy frowned and reached for Sophia’s shoulder, pulling back at the last moment to keep from bloodying her friend’s dress. “The doctor is on his way.”

  “Jack,” Sophia whispered and placed her hand atop his head. “Please.”

  Ivy glanced at Blake for help with a reassuring word or kind response and was exasperated to find him staring at Sophia, mouth agape. It was likely he’d never before seen Jack’s beautiful sister—he had yet to meet her at any official functions.

  With a roll of her eyes, she turned her attention back to Sophia, who by now seemed to realize there was another in the room.

  “Who are you?” she demanded as she looked up at Blake.

  He closed his mouth as Ivy gestured to him. “Miss Sophia Elliot, may I introduce Lord Anthony Blake, heir to the Earl of Wilshire.”

  “And how do you know my brother?” Sophia asked Blake, who continued to regard her without so much as blinking.

  “We are friends,” Blake finally said. “And it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Ivy considered the absurdity of the introduction as they were gathered there around a gravely wounded man, two of them smeared in blood up to their elbows.

  Sophia turned her attention back to Ivy. “What happened; do you know?”

  Ivy quietly relayed what little they had learned from Fuddleston, wishing she could shield Sophia from the truth.

  “Who is trying to kill my brother?” Sophia looked at Ivy with eyes that filmed over. “I don’t understand.”

  “We will find the culprit,” Ivy told her, hoping they would before the killer met with success.

  “You should know, Lord Blake, that if you are in any way connected with the troubles Jack is experiencing, I will hunt you down myself.” Sophia’s tone was pleasant enough, but Ivy briefly closed her eyes. Sophia’s Season would not go at all well if she threatened members of the upper class.

  Ivy motioned for Sophia to hold the end of the towel while Ivy reached for Jack’s hand and put her fingers at his wrist. His pulse was constant, thank heaven, and, a little sigh escaping her lips, Ivy held out hope that Jack Elliot might be strong enough to survive just about anything. One thing was certain—he was definitely thick-headed enough.

  Chapter 22

  Comfort often comes from those whom we

  may not have realized are our friends.

  Mistress Manners’ Tips for Every-day Etiquette

  Ivy eyed the doctor warily as he entered Jack’s bedchamber with his black medicine bag, wondering if the man had secured the fresh leeches he had mentioned last time. She glanced at Anthony Blake, whose face remained impassive, but she noticed a further tightening of his jaw.

  “Took your time, man,” Blake said to Doctor Featherstone. “He’s nearly bled to death waiting for you.”

  Doctor Featherstone shot Blake a flat look and doffed his coat and gloves. Rolling up his sleeves, he shouldered Blake out of the way and gave a quick glance to the two young women kneeling on the bed.

  “You mustn’t bleed him,” Ivy blurted out. “He’s lost too much already.”

  Featherstone didn’t bother to look at her, but carefully turned Jack’s head to the side and bent close to examine the back of it. “I’ve yet to even fully see the extent of the injuries, my lady. I will make that determination when I have a better understanding of his Lordship’s condition.”

  “You’ll not bleed him.” Blake’s face was stony and impassive, and standing there as he was, hands on hips, his white shirt smeared with blood, he looked fearsome. Ivy would certainly not want to argue with him in such a state, and apparently he had given Doctor Featherstone enough pause that he glanced at the earl before continuing to probe. He replaced the towel at the back of Jack’s head.

  “We must immediately stitch,” the doctor said as he looked closely at the worst of the offending cuts on Jack’s face, across his eyebrow and down onto his nose. He looked over his shoulder again at Blake. “You will help me,” he said, and then he looked at Ivy and Sophia. “You two will leave.”

  “I am staying right here,” Sophia told the man, “and we do not have time to waste arguing about it.”

  Ivy wasn’t sure she had the stomach to watch the doctor string thread through Jack’s face, so it was just as well she had been ordered from the room.

  “I am going downstairs to speak with Mr. Fuddleston,” she said and laid a hand on Sophia’s arm. “Send for me if you need me.”

  Sophia nodded, and Ivy crawled across the mattress and slid to the floor trying without success to keep the bedding free of bloody handprints. As she looked back again at Jack, her breath caught in her throat and her eyes began to burn. He was so frighteningly still. Worst of all was the fact that she had been so horribly short to him the night before. She would take it all back in a heartbeat. It hardly mattered that he had been teasing her all along, that he had allowed her to believe he was incapable of playing the part she was training him for. P
erhaps he had hoped his impeccable speech and manners would be a pleasant surprise for her.

  Thinking along those lines was even worse, and she closed her eyes as she hurried from the room, tears escaping and making their way down her face. Wiping impatiently at the tears with the backs of her hands, she walked down the second-floor hallway to the front staircase and descended to the foyer. The butler was in the process of closing the parlor doors when Ivy approached him.

  “Is Mr. Fuddleston inside?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “I must speak with him.”

  Watkins opened the doors again, and she entered to find Clarence Fuddleston sitting near the hearth. He stood immediately at her entrance, eyes widened at her appearance.

  Fuddleston moved out of the way and indicated for her to take the seat he had been occupying. She sank into it gratefully, and he pulled another chair close to the hearth so the two of them might converse. Now that she had a moment to sit and think, Ivy felt positively shaky, and the tears gathered again.

  “What news, then?” Fuddleston asked her, his serious eyes round and blinking behind his spectacles.

  She shrugged, miserable. “The doctor is going to stitch the worst of the wounds. Lord Blake and Miss Elliot are going to assist him. And then, I suppose, we wait.” Another tear streaked down her cheek and she wiped at it, embarrassed.

  Fuddleston handed her a clean, folded handkerchief from his inside coat pocket and gave her a slight nod. “I have been speaking with members of the staff, and nobody recognized anything out of the ordinary. No new maids or other servants hired within the last few weeks, other than the stable master.”

  “Yesterday I spoke with one of the scullery maids, Millie,” Ivy told him, wiping delicately at her nose and wishing she were alone so she could blow it. She relayed the conversation between the cook’s assistant and the mysterious stranger in the back gardens.