A Wicked Pursuit

by Isabella Bradford

  But Gus was accustomed to this kind of responsibility. Since her mother had died six years ago, she had gradually taken over more and more of the running of the household for her widowed father, and now that she was nearly twenty, she was virtually the mistress of Wetherby Abbey. The Earl of Hargreave had been Papa’s guest when he had suffered his grievous accident, and to Gus it was her duty to make certain his lordship received the best possible care as long as he remained beneath their roof.

  He stirred a fraction and gave a sigh that was half groan. Quickly Gus put down her knitting and leaned close, ready to listen if he tried to speak or make some other sign. But he once again sank back to wherever he was deep in himself, his breathing so faint that the rise and fall of his chest was barely discernible.

  Gently she lay her palm over his brow to feel for the fever the doctor had predicted would come. To her relief, his skin was still cool, and she smoothed his hair back from his forehead, marveling that a man so large and strong should have hair so soft.

  Behind her the bedroom door opened, and she turned quickly, expecting Dr. Leslie’s return. But instead of the surgeon, it was her father’s portly silhouette that filled the doorway.

  “How is his lordship, then?” he asked in a whisper, his expression solemn beneath his old-fashioned wig as he joined Gus at the earl’s bedside. “He certainly doesn’t have the look of a well man.”

  “No,” Gus whispered back. “There’s still no fever, which is good, but if it weren’t for the laudanum, I fear he’d be in great pain.”

  “And why shouldn’t he be, considering what a tangle he made of his leg?” The earl shuddered. “I’ve seen my share of falls from horses in the field, but nothing like that.”

  It had been like nothing Gus had seen, either. She’d tended to the usual sprains and cuts that happened around the estate, the same as her mother had, but as soon as she’d seen the earl lying on the ground with his leg twisted and bent beneath him she’d known his injury was far beyond her limited experience.

  It was also beyond the experience of Dr. Leslie, called in from Norwich. He had dutifully seen that the earl was both purged and bled according to best medical practices, and then he’d reduced, or set, the earl’s broken leg as well as he could. But still a messenger had been sent racing to London, delivering news of the accident to his lordship’s father, the Duke of Breconridge, and requesting assistance from his lordship’s own surgeon as he’d requested, the celebrated Sir Randolph Peterson.

  “Where’s that nurse that Leslie brought?” Papa asked, glancing around the room. “The one who looked as puckered as a lemon?”

  “Mrs. Patton has gone belowstairs to the kitchen to prepare her tea,” Gus said. “She doubts our staff can make it properly, at least not to her satisfaction. I expect her to return soon enough.”

  Papa shuddered. “I doubt we do anything properly in this house, according to that termagant. She should be here tending his lordship now, not you.”

  “I don’t mind,” Gus said quickly. “Not at all.”

  “His lordship’s not one of your weepy parlor maids with a scraped knee,” Papa said gloomily. “Leslie says the earl’s in a bad way. He’s sure the flesh will putrefy around the break, and then the only way to save the man will be to—”

  “I know what he said, Papa,” Gus said. She’d kept her word to the earl, and had been beside him, holding his hand while Dr. Leslie and his assistant had done their best to pull and settle the broken bones into place and secure them with a leather splint. She could not imagine the agony that his lordship must have endured, yet even as he’d drifted in and out of consciousness, he’d never cried out once—though he’d squeezed her hand so tightly that it was a marvel she hadn’t needed Dr. Leslie’s ministrations, too.

  “His lordship’s a powerfully strong gentleman in his prime,” she continued, “and between Dr. Leslie and the London surgeon, I’m sure he’ll recover.”

  But Papa shook his head. “You’ve always been my little optimist, Gus, but according to Leslie, his lordship may lose that leg before he’s done.”

  “Don’t even whisper such a thing, Papa,” Gus protested, horrified. “We’re not on board some man-o’-war in the middle of a sea battle, with surgeons sawing off limbs left and right!”

  “No, but mortal man is made of flesh and blood, no matter if he’s a sailor or a peer,” Papa said, turning philosophical. “Pray the poor devil doesn’t die under our roof, or before he can marry your sister.”

  Gus didn’t answer. She knew this man loved Julia—so Julia herself had proclaimed, over and over—and everyone in the house knew he’d come here to ask for her hand. It would be a splendid match for her sister, especially after Julia had spent the past two seasons in London unable to make herself settle on a single eligible suitor. Lord Hargreave, however, would one day be a duke and Julia could be his duchess, and even she couldn’t deny the merit in that.

  And yet deep down, Gus couldn’t help but feel that her flighty, self-centered sister wasn’t worthy of a man as courageous as this one. He was not an ordinary gentleman; she’d seen that at once, the moment he’d entered the house. All he’d done then had been to smile and ask for her sister, yet that had been sufficient to reduce Gus to near incoherency. It wasn’t just that he was blindingly handsome. There was something more, something that Gus couldn’t define, but also couldn’t ignore. Yet she also couldn’t ignore that he belonged to her sister, who didn’t quite seem to appreciate what she had. Julia had been too given over to hysterics since the accident to be able to explain exactly what had happened, but after a lifetime together Gus could guess—a guess that was making her thoroughly uneasy.

  “Look at him,” Papa said, mournfully regarding the earl. “Battered and broken, yet still as handsome as sin. No wonder he’s so besotted with Julia, and she with him. The pretty faces always do pair off, don’t they?”

  Gus bowed her head, busying herself with smoothing the counterpane and tucking it more closely around the earl. Papa hadn’t meant to wound her—he never did—but his words stung nonetheless. How could they not? What he’d said was only the truth. Gentlemen like the earl chose beautiful ladies like Julia as their wives. They’d never even notice ladies who looked like Gus.

  “Where is Julia, Papa?” she asked. “Andrew visited with his lordship before he left this morning for Calais, and he’s not the one who expects to marry the gentleman. Why hasn’t Julia called upon him?”

  Papa’s shoulders bunched and shrugged, the way they always did when he was preparing to make excuses for his older daughter.

  “She’s in her rooms, I suppose,” he said. “I don’t believe she left her bed all yesterday. The shock, you know. She’s such a sensitive creature, and yesterday’s events disturbed her mightily. Dr. Leslie had to give her a special draft to calm her.”

  It seemed to Gus that the earl had suffered far more than Julia had. Yet all Gus did was nod in agreement, for there was nothing to be gained by questioning her sister’s sensitivity.

  “Is she better today?” she asked. “If she is, you could bring her here yourself.”

  Papa frowned and puffed out his cheeks. “I don’t see the purpose to that,” he said. “I doubt his lordship would know if Julia was here or not, and it would only distress her to see him like this. Best not to interfere between them, Gus. I don’t want their match broken before it’s fairly made. Has Julia told you the earl has royal blood in his veins? That his great-great-grandfather was the king himself?”

  “And that his great-great-grandmother was a French trollop, made into a duchess for services rendered,” Gus said. “Of course I know. But that has nothing to do with the fact that he was asking for her the moment I found him in the woods, and she has yet to visit him.”

  “I’m sure she’ll come in time, Gus, as soon as she feels able.” Awkwardly Papa put his hand on Gus’s shoulder, trying to soothe her when she was in no humor to be soothed. “What of you, duck? It’s been very good of you to sit
with his lordship, but I don’t want you falling ill, too.”

  “I won’t fall ill, Papa,” she protested. “His lordship’s injured, not sick.”

  “Still, if you exhaust yourself, you’ll take ill fast enough,” Papa said, his broad face softening. “It’s times like this that you remind me so much of your mother, Gus. She’d be so intent on helping everyone else that she’d refuse to think of herself, too.”

  Gus’s smile was wobbly with emotion. Papa seldom spoke of her mother, not like this. Possessing freckles and pale brown hair, Gus knew she resembled her mother—she’d only to look at her mother’s portrait in the library to see it—but she’d rather be like her mother in this, the ways that would have made her most proud.

  “I try, Papa,” she said simply.

  “And you succeed, duck,” he said, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “Don’t know what I’ll do without you, when it’s your turn to go to London and find a husband.”

  She blushed and ducked her chin. “Oh, Papa,” she said. “It won’t be anytime soon.”

  “It will,” he said, “as soon as Julia settles her own affairs. You’re nearly twenty. With her to help you, maybe you’ll snare a duke for yourself, too. That’s why I want you to come away from this poor fellow with me now.”

  “Papa, please, I don’t—”

  “You’ll listen to me, Gus,” he said firmly. “There’s an unhealthy miasma around every invalid, no matter the cause. As soon as that nurse returns, I want you to retire to your rooms and rest, and then come down to dine with the rest of us this evening. I don’t want you hiding yourself up here any longer.”

  “I haven’t been hiding here,” Gus said with equal firmness; she was, after all, his daughter, too. “I have been giving his lordship the best possible care, and it’s fortunate that one of us has. I needn’t remind you that he was riding your Hercules—a horse that never respects any rider but you, Papa—at the time of his fall, and who knows what manner of foolishness Julia was doing when—”

  “No more argument, Gus,” Papa said gruffly, his hand like a bear’s paw on her shoulder. “For you to speak like that of your sister and of me only proves exactly how weary you have let yourself become. You have done an exemplary job treating his lordship, but now it is time to stand aside for Mrs. Patton.”

  Tears stung her eyes, more proof, really, of how very tired she was. She didn’t bother with her handkerchief, dashing the heel of her hand at the corners of her eyes.

  “But I promised his lordship I would stay with him,” she said. “I promised I’d be here if he needed me.”

  Papa sighed. “Gus, the poor man likely won’t recall having so much as met you, let alone what you promised him.”

  It was true, all true. Just because she wouldn’t forget him didn’t mean he’d feel the same. She’d held the hands of many people through their suffering, and while a comfort at the time, it seldom amounted to anything of lasting substance. It wouldn’t now, either. She swallowed hard and blindly gathered up her knitting, tightly wrapping the half-knit stocking around her needles and wool.

  Misreading her silence as acquiescence, Papa greeted the nurse with hearty relief. “Ah, here’s Mrs. Patton. You’ve nothing more to concern yourself with, Gus. Everything here will be looked after.”

  Mrs. Patton curtseyed grandly to Papa and began to bustle importantly about the room with a show of efficiency, or so it seemed to Gus.

  “Come now, duck,” Papa said gently, once again taking Gus by the arm. “If there is any change in his lordship’s condition, I’ll be sure you are notified.”

  She stole one last glance at the unconscious earl, his elegantly chiseled profile and dark waving hair, his unshaven jaw and the way his lashes feathered over his closed eyes. She willed him to be well, to heal and recover. Then with her head bowed, she turned and left, and did not stop until she’d reached her own rooms.

  She was washing her hands and face when her lady’s maid, Mary, entered behind her.

  “Do you wish to bathe, Miss Augusta?” she asked, curtseying. “At this time of the morning, it won’t take long for them to fetch the hot water from the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, no,” Gus said, blotting her face dry. “I’m going to lie down for a bit, that’s all. I don’t wish to undress, but be ready when the London doctor arrives.”

  She sank onto the edge of the bed. She’d known she was tired, but until that moment she hadn’t realized how truly exhausted she was. She could scarcely keep her eyes open as she held up each foot for Mary to unbuckle her shoes.

  “Begging pardon, miss,” Mary said with unabashed disapproval, “but there’s leaves and muck on your petticoat from traipsing through the woods. Let me find you a clean one.”

  “Very well,” Gus said, standing just long enough for Mary to untie her petticoat and slip it over her underskirt. She sank back down onto the bed, drawing her feet up to curl on her side.

  “At least permit me to untie your pocket, miss,” Mary said as she brought a light quilt to cover Gus. “You can’t rest properly with that heavy thing on your side.”

  Gus wore an embroidered linen pocket tied around her waist as every woman did, but while Julia’s contained little vanities like a pocket glass, rouge box, and comb, Gus’s was lumpy with practical things such as keys, a thimble, and a needle case. “It will be fine, Mary,” Gus mumbled, already half asleep as she shoved her pocket up on her hip. “I’m only going to lie down for a few minutes.”

  “Very well, Miss Augusta,” Mary said, drawing the quilt up over Gus. “Sleep well.”

  She gently closed the door, and with a sigh Gus burrowed her face into the pillow. As she settled, her pocket slipped from her hip and fell forward, and drowsily she shoved it back out of the way. Her fingers brushed over an unfamiliar lump in the pocket, and suddenly she was awake. She reached inside it and pulled out a small, hinged box, domed on the lid and covered in red leather.

  The box had fallen from Lord Hargreave’s clothes as the servants had carried him up the stairs, and at the time she’d tucked it away in her pocket for safekeeping. She’d forgotten about it until now, but as she saw it again in her palm, she’d no doubt what it was.

  She didn’t need to have Julia’s obsessive fascination with costly jewels to recognize a ring box when she saw one, and there was only one reason that the earl had been carrying a lady’s ring with him when he’d gone out riding with her sister. When Julia had returned home to Wetherby last week, she’d predicted gleefully that the earl would soon follow her, and when he did, he’d ask for her hand. Apparently she’d been right.

  Gus knew she shouldn’t open the box, that the ring inside was no affair of hers, and yet she could not help herself. Slowly—as if slowness would somehow mitigate the sin of peeking at something that wasn’t hers—she unfastened the little brass catch and opened the box.

  She gasped. She couldn’t help that, either. The ring was like an extravagant flower of diamonds, with one large stone centering a dozen smaller ones, flashing brilliantly in its velvet nest. She stared at it, turning it this way and that to catch the light, and wistfully imagined what it would be like to be given such a ring by such a gentleman. Julia would know, of course; she herself wouldn’t.

  At last she closed the box and slipped it back into her pocket, intending to give it to the earl’s servant as soon as she could. She wasn’t sure she’d sleep now, not after seeing the ring, but soon the exhaustion claimed her, and she fell soundly, deeply asleep.

  It was the sound of a carriage in the drive below her room that woke Gus. Disoriented by the unfamiliar hour, she didn’t wake easily, squinting at the late-afternoon sun that slanted in through the front window.

  Late afternoon: Oh, saints deliver her, she’d slept through the entire day! Swiftly she slid from the bed and hurried to the window. The carriage she’d heard on the gravel drive belonged to Dr. Leslie, and it was now heading for the front gate. If he was leaving, then the London surgeon must be here now with the
earl—or he might already have finished his consultation and be gone as well. Why hadn’t Papa remembered to send someone to wake her?

  “Mary! Mary!” she called impatiently, and the maid appeared. “Where is that fresh petticoat you promised? I must go down to his lordship’s room at once. Hurry, Mary, hurry, else I’ll go down without it!”

  She fidgeted while Mary helped her into a clean petticoat of dark red silk, then smoothed her neckerchief and repinned her blue woolen bodice for her. Ten years older than Gus, Mary had been her lady’s maid since Gus had been a young girl, and because of it often took more well-intentioned freedom than was customary—freedom that Gus usually did not mind.

  But not now, not when she must return to the earl. “I’m not going to be presented to the queen, Mary,” she said. “I needn’t be perfect.”

  “So long as you’re my lady, it’s my duty to turn you out as best I can,” Mary insisted, tucking stray strands of Gus’s hair back beneath her cap. “Forgive me, Miss Augusta, but you worry that you can’t compare to Miss Wetherby, yet much of that’s your own doing, with not taking care to look your best.”

  Over Mary’s shoulder, Gus caught her reflection in the looking glass on her dressing table. She had inherited the most humble characteristics from each of her parents: her father’s round face and dusty brown hair, her mother’s freckles and slight stature. There was nothing really wrong with her appearance, but there was also nothing to it that made her memorable, either, and all of Mary’s fussing wasn’t going to change that.

  “I must go, Mary,” she said, slipping free of the maid’s ministrations. “Everything’s well enough as it is.”

  She hurried back to Lord Hargreave’s bedchamber. She might not be beautiful, but she was determined to be useful, and she briskly marched past the footman holding the door for her.