You Again (a novella)

by Carolyn Scott

  Ordinarily she would have brought her maid to London with her but Esme had come down with a rattling cough and was in no fit state to travel. Her illness had been a blow and Georgiana had tried to cancel her contract. That's when Sir Oswyn Crisp had informed her he would savage her reputation by leaking her secret—her terrible, fatal secret—to those who might wish to employ her in the future.

  She couldn't refuse.

  But now that she stood in the presence of her disarmingly handsome patient, she wished she could walk away. The last time Esme stayed home, Georgiana had made the mistake that had resulted in her current precarious situation.

  "You may not be concerned for your reputation but I am concerned for mine," he said without a hint of humor. "Please sit, Miss Appleby, and let me explain the situation to you."

  The situation was as clear as crystal to Georgiana but she obliged him anyway and sat in one of the deep leather armchairs bracketing the fireplace. She had the disturbing feeling of being swallowed by the large piece of furniture. Redcliff sat on the stiff-backed chair at his desk, stretched out his long, elegant legs and crossed his ankles, looking every bit as if he was in charge of the situation.

  So she prodded the conversation into a different direction from the one he no doubt intended. "Your arm appears to move easily enough," she said, focusing on her work rather than the narrowed eyes that watched her every move. "Does it still hurt?"

  He rolled his right shoulder. "Not much."

  "And the gash at the back of your head?"

  "Is healing."

  "Good. So your memory has improved?"

  "No."

  A conversation with a stone would have been less one-sided. She preferred to ease them both into the new situation and get to know her patient a little first but Redcliff left her with no option but to confront him in the most direct way. "Since you are no longer in any great pain, there is no reason to continue to smoke opium is there?"

  He went very still again, as if bracing himself. Only a small muscle pulsed high in his cheek. The room suddenly felt cooler beneath that glacial stare. "I need it to help me sleep. I suffer from headaches and insomnia." His tone was as hard and flat as flint.

  "The headaches could be from the opium." Sir Oswyn had already informed her that Redcliff smoked the powder to help him sleep. A deep slumber meant no nightmares. Unlike most of her patients, Redcliff wasn't taking the opium to ease the pain of his injuries. Sir Oswyn had made that point clear. However, Redcliff was smoking it to ease another sort of pain. A pain that was far deeper, and far more difficult to heal than a physical one. Discovering and treating the source of it would hopefully cure his need for opium.

  If only he would let her.

  "You only take it at night?" she asked.

  He sat back and regarded her through lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. "This conversation is unnecessary. My usage is limited and hardly a problem. I'm a picture of health, wouldn't you say?"

  She most certainly would say. He looked strong and fit, his athletic legs displayed in all their perfection beneath tight, buff-colored breeches. And then there were those wide, wide shoulders. He was all long, lean lines with a hint of power in the parts of him that were exposed to her scrutiny—the strong fingers, the firm jaw and the determined brow. Indeed he looked extraordinarily...healthy.

  Except for the shadows in the hollows of his face and the pallor marring his smooth skin.

  He uncrossed his ankles, leaned forward and gave her a twisted grin. "Or would you like to give me a thorough inspection to satisfy yourself?"

  To her utter dismay, her face heated. But from fury not embarrassment. Redcliff was doing everything in his power to unnerve her, undermine her confidence...and she would not allow it.

  But before she could think of a suitably cutting retort, he spoke. "Why, Miss Appleby, you blush! I hope I haven't offended your sensibilities with my coarseness."

  She smiled thinly. "Since your coarseness is simply a weapon of self-defense, Mr. Redcliff, I am not offended. I know you don't mean to be vulgar. In fact, I'm told you're quite pleasant when you want to be. At least you used to be."

  That wiped the mocking smile from his eyes. Unfortunately what replaced it was pure ice. "Sir Oswyn said that did he? And is that why he sent you? To return me to the pleasantly amenable diplomat I once was?" When she merely shrugged he went on. "Well, Miss Appleby, is that why he employed a mere slip of a woman like you?"

  It was a common enough question—most of her patients expected a man, and a qualified physician at that. On the other hand, few qualified physicians saw the use of opium as a problem. Many prescribed it for pain relief. Only Georgiana's father and a handful of others understood the long-term damage it did to mind and body. She'd continued his work after his death because, quite simply, what else could a woman in her late twenties with no allowance and no one to support her do to keep poverty at bay? Besides, she liked being useful and she liked helping people, even those who weren't always aware they needed help.

  "He commissioned me because he believes I can cure you of your addiction," she said. "It's as simple as that."

  "Is it? The opium helps me sleep and sleep helps me to function, not the opposite. Have you asked yourself why Sir Oswyn would want me working at less than my best?" His blue eyes drilled into her. Challenging. Testing? "I've also given my resignation. Did he tell you that?"

  He had not. It would seem Sir Oswyn hadn't been entirely honest about everything. She was not surprised.

  "So why send you at all?" Mr. Redcliff's question echoed her own thoughts. "That, Miss Appleby, is what you should be asking."

  "Perhaps he is concerned for your welfare," she said. Redcliff snorted. "As your employer he is, after all, responsible for your addiction."

  "He is not."

  "Oh?" She raised an eyebrow but he offered no more on the matter. "Let me tell you some things you may not know about opium, Mr. Redcliff, and then you can tell me if Sir Oswyn doesn't have your best interests at heart. Because he knows as well as I do that there are severe side-effects of smoking or eating the powder. It can cause breathing difficulties. It numbs the mind. You might be simply taking it to help you sleep now but soon you'll find you need to smoke more and more to help you fall asleep, and that's when the problems will really start."

  He blinked slowly, deliberately. "Are you telling me the entire medical profession is wrong?"

  "Perhaps they have not seen opium kill a man."

  "And you have?"

  "Yes." Her mouth dried. Tears pricked her eyes. If she thought too much about that day, that patient, then cracks would open up and a flood of painful memories would swamp her. She could not allow that. "He took too much and stopped breathing." She shrugged in an attempt to hide the overwhelming sadness she always felt when she let herself remember Lawrence. "He simply never woke up."

  There was a slight hesitation before he said, "I will not take too much."

  "Even so, I am here to help you stop."

  His hands balled into fists on his thighs then slowly uncurled and he stretched out his fingers. His sharp gaze drilled into her. "Let's make something clear, Miss Appleby. I don't want you here."

  "I believe you have already made that point clear."

  "Then why aren't you leaving? Surely you have other employment waiting for you."

  Therein lay the problem. "Sir Oswyn has...insisted. He can be quite persuasive when he wants to be."

  Mr. Redcliff leaned back and breathed deeply. "Quite."

  Something in his voice gave her pause. "If you don't want me here then why not throw me out?"

  That produced another one of those grim, twisted smiles. "Because I'm too much of a gentleman."

  She had the sudden desire to laugh out loud. Fortunately she kept it in check and only a small strangled sound escaped from her throat. "Of course you are," was all she said. But it most certainly was not the reason for his grudging acceptance of her presence in his home. That, she guessed, could be firmly l
aid at Sir Oswyn's crippled feet too. He'd forced Georgiana's hand on the matter and it would seem he had forced Mr. Redcliff's too. She wondered what secret the Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign Office knew about his favorite diplomat and spy.

  "I'll double what he's paying you," he said.

  "No, thank you."

  "Triple it."

  "It's not about the money." Well, in a way it was—it came down to the future earnings she would lose as a result of Sir Oswyn making good on his threat to expose her.

  "Well then," he said, "we are at a stalemate."

  "Unless you decide to give up opium."

  "I am not giving up."

  "Then we are indeed at a stalemate as you put it." Stalemates always ended. Eventually. "It seems we shall have to get along as best we can."

  "We don't have to get along at all. I accept your presence here but for the time being only."

  "So what shall we do? Be in each other's way forever until one of us dies from sheer frustration?"

  The corner of his mouth twitched in what she suspected was the beginning of a genuine smile. No sooner had it appeared than it just as quickly disappeared. "We do nothing," he said.

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing. This is a big house and we are both adults. I will avoid you and I expect you to avoid me, until you come to realize the futility of staying."

  It was her turn to smile. She couldn't help it. What he was suggesting was ludicrous. And yet it was the only way. With a stubborn patient, time was her best weapon. Redcliff was a clever man and hopefully a sensible one. He would soon see that not only could he not win a stalemate against her, he was better off without opium. Once the symptoms grew worse, he would realize he needed to give it up or risk losing his life or his mind.

  However the fact that he was giving into the situation remarkably easily gave her pause. Surely he didn't believe they could live in the same house indefinitely? So what did he have planned?

  He pulled a gold watch out of his fob pocket. "Now that we've established our positions, I must leave you to your own devices."

  "Of course. But before you go, there's one more thing. Worth tells me you are expecting guests."

  "I am." He pocketed his watch. "My sister and aunt are here for the Season. Is this about your room?"

  "No. The room is adequate for my needs, thank you. My concern is about your guests' presence. What are you going to tell them about me? Indeed, is it even necessary that they stay here? Perhaps it would be more convenient if they stayed at your brother's house. Or does Lord Staunton not have any space?"

  "Of course he does. He's the Earl of bloody Staunton. He's got more rooms than Carlton House. But Aunt Harry doesn't like the noise generated by my hellion nephews, nor could I inflict her upon them. I'm not that cruel." He moved past Georgiana to his desk and rearranged the scattered papers without making them any neater. "Since you insist upon staying here, perhaps Aunt Harry's presence is more fortuitous than you think."

  "Oh?"

  "I see you haven't brought your own maid. My aunt can act as your chaperone."

  "My maid was ill. I thought you might have a housekeeper or other female servant to take on the role."

  "This is not the country, Miss Appleby." He looked at her as if she were a half-wit for even suggesting it. "A mere housekeeper cannot dispel the London gossips. My reputation is at stake and I'll not have it ruined because you didn't bring your maid."

  It was the second time he'd made a reference to his reputation and she still wasn't sure if it was a joke. Going by the grim set of his mouth, it probably wasn't. Perhaps females had used him before to try to ruin their reputations. Considering his wealth and looks, she wouldn't be surprised if one or more had attempted to trap him into marriage using underhanded methods. But to think a mere aunt could stop a lady in pursuit of an eligible gentleman was naive. To his credit, a female servant had even less chance.

  "So what will you tell them about my presence?" she prompted.

  He shrugged and winced. His arm must be hurting more than he was letting on. "What I'll tell everyone. That you are my nurse. You're tending to my injuries." He cocked his head to the side and regarded her as if he were seeing her for the first time. "Although some may not believe it."

  "You think they'll assume I'm your mistress?" She stifled a laugh. "Now I shall always be wondering what your visitors are thinking when they meet me for the first time."

  "You won't be meeting any of my visitors, Miss Appleby. You'll be keeping out of my way, remember?"

  "I remember."

  He seemed so sure of himself, so confident that he could avoid her and even succeed in ridding himself of her presence that she almost felt sorry for him. Learning that he would not succeed—or more to the point, that she could not afford to fail—would come as quite a shock.

  He rose and stood so close she could have touched him without leaning forward. He was a solid tower of strength, one that remained perfectly still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the clenching and unclenching of his fists at his sides. It was as if the calm exterior contained a mass of raw, seething power that would burst out if he moved one muscle too many.

  She rose too and gave him a small curtsy. "I think I'll go for a walk. Good afternoon, Mr. Redcliff."

  He opened the door for her, watching her all the while beneath a frown. His gaze unnerved her yet she couldn't pinpoint the reason why. It was direct certainly, but not sharp enough to tear through her. "Might I suggest Hyde Park," he said, voice low and simmering across the gap between them. "That should keep you out of trouble."

  "And what makes you think I want to be kept out of trouble, Mr. Redcliff?"

  His eyes widened ever so slightly, then his lips tilted into the shadow of a smile. It seemed she had surprised him with her answer, and amused him. At least he had a sense of humor buried somewhere beneath the hardened exterior.

  "Forgive me. I assumed you would not approve of our looser city ways."

  It was her turn to be surprised. "Oh? And pray, what is it about me that led you to that assumption?"

  He crossed his arms then immediately uncrossed them as a whisper of pain passed over his face. His arm must hurt in that position, although he'd shown no hint of it when he crossed his arms earlier. It was perhaps a testimony to what he could endure when he wanted to.

  "I'm not sure you really want to know," he said.

  She most certainly did now that he'd said that and with such smugness too. Particularly as it would give her some insight into what he saw when he looked at her. "Tell me anyway. If we're to be thrown together we might as well be honest with one another."

  "Very well, if you insist. It's your...tightness."

  The description caught her off guard. "My what?"

  "Tightness." He waved a hand at her dress, her face. "Everything about you is tight. Your hair is pulled back so severely that your eyes are pointed at the outer corners. Your lips are perennially pursed, except on the occasion you deign to smile, and that dress is a little too small for you. It is tight in all the...interesting places." His blue eyes suddenly blazed with heat as his gaze shifted to her chest. Slowly, slowly he looked up at her face again. "Even your freckles are tightly packed across your nose."

  Georgiana controlled a blush but it took effort. Then she had to stop herself from laughing—he'd got her thoroughly wrong. Thank goodness. "And it's because of this that you think I'd be shocked by what I see and hear in London? I may live in the country, Mr. Redcliff, but I have been to London many times and I can assure you I am quite aware of your city ways."

  "But are you comfortable with them?"

  She was trying to think of a witty retort when he got in first. "Good afternoon, Miss Appleby. Please make use of the servants. The library is also at your disposal."

  She supposed it would be too much to expect an invitation to dine with him.

  He bowed, not deeply, and opened the door wider, driving home the point. She curtsied and left
. The door clicked softly shut behind her.

  Georgiana expelled a long breath and wished she had someone to talk to about the strange encounter with Mr. Redcliff. Esme was a good listener and her father had always been an excellent adviser. But she was alone and in a large house with a man who didn't want her there. She wasn't entirely sure what to make of it, or him, or what to do next.

  So she made her way to the library downstairs where she sat in one of the big armchairs situated beside the unlit hearth. Libraries always had a soothing effect on her. The smell of old leather buried deep within the fibers of the rug and shelf upon shelf of densely packed volumes reminded her of her father's extensive library. She'd sold it off years ago to pay his debts but she would never lose the memory of how his books made her feel. Warm and safe yet courageous and free at the same time. Soaking up the atmosphere in Redcliff's library was one way to bring back her parents and that sense of unconditional love they had showered upon her.

  The library looked out upon the entrance hall and she soon heard steady, determined footsteps on the black and white marble squares. They were the confident strides of a man who owned his world, not a servant. They must belong to Redcliff.

  She stood and made her way to one of the ceiling-high bookcases nearer the door to better see him. She picked a book at random but lifted her gaze to watch Redcliff accepting his hat from Worth in the hall. The butler bowed and Redcliff, who had not seen her, left through the front door.

  As if the answer had been whispered in her ear, she now knew what her next step must be. She would not wait around for Redcliff to be ready to be cured.

  When Worth slipped away, she replaced the book and climbed the stairs once more. She knocked softly on the door adjacent to Redcliff's study which she guessed was the master bedroom. It was opened by a man of middling age with streaks of gray shooting through his red hair. He had a friendly, generous face with gentle creases around his mouth and owlish eyes.

  "You must be Miss Appleby," he said without a hint of surprise or wariness.

  "I am. And you are Mr. Redcliff's valet?"