Alexandra placed a fresh cloth on Edward’s brow and inspected the bandaging on his shoulder. It was obvious to anyone she had been doing this quite often lately. She felt Ashford’s watchful eyes on her, but she was too exhausted to explain herself.
She glanced up with a weary look of relief. “I’m so glad we’re home.” A weak smile touched her lips. “Thank God we made it.” She stood to reach for another clean cloth—and collapsed to the floor.
Chapter 20
Alexandra woke in a bed of fresh linens, wearing a clean night rail. She inhaled and sighed. A real bed with clean sheets. Bleary-eyed, she peeked over her blanket to make out the large woman entering the room, followed by a maid carrying a tray of tea. The maid set the tray on a table next to her bed.
“Oh jolly good,” Lady Bertha said. “You’re awake just in time for tea, my dear.” She poured. “You take two lumps of sugar if I recall, and no milk. Now do sit up, so we can have a nice chat.”
Covering her mouth she yawned. “How long have I been sleeping?” She tried to shake the cobwebs from her brain.
“For nearly a day, dear. You must have worn yourself out entirely. My brother said you hit the floor like a veritable brick. Dear heavens, look at you. You’ve whittled away down to nothing. We’ll need to have all your lovely gowns taken in.”
Suddenly, Alexandra sat up straight. “How is Edward?”
“Oh, my dear, don’t worry yourself. He is starting to come to!”
“He is?” Alexandra’s heart leaped. “Forgive me, Lady Bertha. You must excuse me.” She threw herself out of bed and dashed past Bertha, out of the room and down the hall.
When she entered Edward’s room, Ashford was seated in a chair pulled up next to the bed.
“How is he?” she asked, gasping for breath.
Ashford looked at her and blinked. “He’s a bit groggy, but I believe he is beginning to wake up. Higgins got him to drink a couple sips of broth.”
“Oh, Uncle Ash, that’s wonderful!” she said, misty-eyed.
Ashford appeared to have aged ten years overnight. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but Doctor Barclay is encouraged.”
A maid entered with a fresh pitcher of water and set it on the table next to the bed. “Bess, could you please bring a wrapper and slippers for Alexandra?” He turned back to Alexandra, “Look at you, running about the house in your night rail,” he scolded.
A moment later, the maid returned, helping Alexandra into her wrapper and slippers.
“You still have some explaining to do, young lady,” Ashford continued. “Thomas McPhee said you were practically a one-woman army over there in bloody France.” He had to pause and take a deep breath before he burst an artery. “Your brothers and I have been worried half to death.”
“Is Ian here?” she asked. Her voice rose to a hopeful lilt.
“Yes, dear, downstairs. Winston is here as well,” he grumbled, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “It’s a whole bloody family reunion. I could skewer that sister of mine for allowing you to leave on this wild goose hunt. But it seems you have managed to save Edward who, according to Lieutenant McPhee, would surely be dead were it not for you. As furious as I am with you, it appears I am going to have to forgive you. But don’t you ever try such an idiotic stunt again!” he shouted. He stood up and hugged her tightly.
“Oh, Uncle Ash. It’s so good to be home,” she said, laying her head against his shoulder.
After a moment she turned to glance down at Edward, and to her surprise his eyes were open. “Edward! Oh, God, you’re truly awake.”
“Quick, give him some water,” said Ashford. “The doctor said he needs water.” He poured a cup and handed it to Alexandra.
She sat on the bed next to him. “Do you think you can drink, Edward, if I hold a cup up to your mouth?”
Edward didn’t move and his eyes were glazed over.
Alexandra picked up his head and cradled it in her arm. With the other hand, she tipped the cup of water to his mouth. She looked at Ashford. Tears of joy streamed down her face. “He swallowed.”
“Give him more, dear.” Ashford said with a catch in his voice.
She gave him another sip. “Edward that was wonderful! I knew you could do it.” Her voice became more somber as she continued. “You’re home, Edward, in London. You’ve been shot in the shoulder. You have given us all a horrid scare, but you’re mending now, and you’ll be perfectly fine in no time at all.”
Ashford stepped up next to them. “Welcome home, Son. It’s so good to have you home.” He choked up and had to sit back down.
Alexandra gently patted a cool cloth over Edward’s face, as she had done a hundred times in the last few days. But this time it was different. Edward was awake.
Higgins burst into the drawing room in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “He’s awake!”
Ian and Winston stood up when they heard Higgins’s announcement.
“Where’s Alex?” Ian asked.
“She’s up with Mr. Edward,” Higgins replied.
Ian and Winston dashed up the stairs. They entered Edward’s bedchamber to find Alexandra perched on the edge of Edward’s bed, still running a damp cloth over his brow.
“Alex, is it true? He’ll be alright?” asked Ian.
“Ian!” Alexandra jumped up and threw her arms around her twin.
Ian clutched her tightly. “I told you I couldn’t breathe until you returned. I’m so relieved you’re home alive and in one piece.”
“I say, Alexandra, it appears you have saved the day indeed.”
Alexandra peered at the gentleman who had entered the room with Ian. His dark hair and eyes resembled Edward’s, and he was almost as handsome. She walked over to him. “Winston? Is it you?”
A wicked smile crossed his face. He gave a polite bow. “It seems we must have family get-togethers a bit more often.” Then he looked at Ian and back at her. “My, my, my. You and Ian are most definitely twins, no doubt about it. You still look identical.”
“And they manage to get into double the mischief as well,” Ashford complained. “All this gray hair is from them.”
“And I suppose Edward and I were perfect angels,” said Winston.
“Definitely not, but these two made you seem like it.” Ashford moaned, shaking his head.
“Come, Uncle Ash, were we really all that horrid?” Ian asked.
“Yes!”
“But we were never boring,” Alexandra added.
“I’d prefer a little boredom for a while, if you don’t mind,” said Ashford.
“By the bye, Winston, I have something to return to you.” Alexandra yanked the string from around her neck and handed him his ring.
Ian sheepishly stepped in. “I borrowed it for her, Winston. I hope you don’t mind. We were in such a hurry and I thought the Ashford signet ring might come in handy if she ran into trouble.”
“As a matter of fact,” Alexandra said, “it did come in rather handy. You could say it convinced a certain profiteer to sail us across the channel. There was no other ship and I don’t know how we would have gotten back, especially trying to keep Edward alive with the French swarming about.”
Winston eyed his ring. “Well, you don’t say. The Ashford name has some clout in the world of the profiteers. Brilliant move on your part, Ian, my boy. I’m delighted that my ring could contribute to saving Edward.”
Alexandra went back over to sit by Edward once more. His eyes were closed again, and she worried. She touched her fingers to his forehead; it was still warm. She took his hand and held it in hers.
“So when is your coming out, Alexandra?” Winston asked.
She scowled. “On the twenty-fourth of September. Still a month away.”
Then in one amazing moment, Alexandra felt a stab of joy as Edward squeezed her hand.
Moving back to Lady Bertha’s, Alexandra reluctantly left Edward to the care of the nurse Ashford hired, an old battle-ax looking nurse with large feet. She would undoub
tedly scare Edward back to good health, Alexandra noted with satisfaction. Ashford promised to keep her apprised of Edward’s condition.
She regretted not being able to really talk to Edward yet, but she doubted he’d really care to speak to her anyway, once he came back to his senses. At least Edward was back home and he was alive and safe.
Chapter 21
Lady Bertha sat at her secretaire, rifling through her correspondence. After intelligently reconsidering the situation at hand, her instincts told her Alexandra would be the perfect match for Edward, and her instincts were never wrong.
She had always known there was a fine line between love and hate. If Edward actually claimed he despised Alexandra, it was most probable that he loved her but did not yet realize it.
It was obvious to everyone the day of the carriage accident in which the poor duchess was lost that no one was at fault. Except Edward had blamed Alexandra, being too devastated to think logically. And the poor girl had always blamed herself. But this has gone far enough. It was time for this misconception to come to an end. The dear duchess would surely not wish for this to continue.
Oh, why must it always require the women with their superior intellect to show men what they truly wanted? Furthermore, how could any young man not desire Alexandra, especially after she dashed off to France and utterly saves him? That is, unless his sexual preferences leaned in other directions.
Aside from them being two of her favorite people, she knew without reservation Edward and Alexandra would make a splendid couple and create magnificent children together, with intelligent free-thinking daughters.
Bertha needed to devise a scheme. It would require all of her wiles.
For a situation of such dire importance, she would call in all her favors. Alexandra and Edward’s happiness was at stake. No holds could be barred!
Bertha’s mundane life had suddenly taken a drastic turn and it was exhilarating. She tried to maintain her stoic demeanor, but could not. She looked about the room to make sure she was alone. . . Then she allowed herself to giggle.
Edward was propped up with pillows in his bed. He felt like the entire French brigade had trampled over him. His head swirled and his stomach protested from the broth he had just forced himself to eat. He was still in awe that he was in his father’s town house. It was like one moment he was in a battle with the French, and then he magically woke here in London. But it was also disturbing. A chunk of time missing from his brain.
Ashford entered with an elated expression on his face. He pulled a chair next to his bed. “Good morning, Son. How are you feeling today?”
Edward stared at him and his heart squeezed. It was so good to see his father. He hadn’t seen him in five years and missed him terribly. Ashford looked the same, except for his hair was grayer and there were more defined lines at the corner of his eyes. And he looked exhausted. “Ghastly,” Edward finally answered, wincing as a pain shot through his shoulder. His hoarse voice was hardly recognizable.
Ashford eyed him as if he really hadn’t expected him to speak at all. “You gave us all quite a bloody scare. The doctor said your shoulder is healing nicely, but you’ll end up with a few nasty scars.”
Edward closed his eyes a moment, recalling more of the ambush. “So many brave men were lost. It was a brutal assault.”
“Your friend Thomas McPhee mentioned some of the horrors. He had a pretty rough go of it as well. A bullet got his arm, but it’s healing. The laird collected him two days past. A fine young man, for a Scot,” Ashford gave a wry grin.
Edward closed his eyes as a torrent of relief washed over him. “He survived.”
“Lord Banks was also checking on you. Said he’d call again soon to give you an update. Everyone was dreadfully worried when you went missing.”
Edward grimaced. “Sorry, but I couldn’t inform anyone. I was a guest at the Chateau d’Effion.”
Ashford paled. “Good God, Edward! That hell-hole of a prison? The bastards flogged you as well.”
Edward shifted in the bed and moaned at the burning reminder of the wounds. “I managed to escape with the help of Thomas McPhee and another one of my men, a fine Frenchman, Jacques Fritte.”
“How did you become imprisoned?”
“I was arrested while attempting to rescue a family with three small children from the guillotine. Fortunately this family did escape. Not all are so lucky. Word of my arrest was sent to the War Office. But it’s been tough getting any messages through in either direction, even by carrier pigeon.” Edward cleared his throat. “…How’d I get back?”
Ashford pressed his lips together and hesitated. He cleared his throat. “I don’t yet know the entire story, but from what facts I have gathered thus far from Thomas McPhee, a Captain Shark sailed you back to England.”
“Sharky brought me home?” Edward’s voice croaked in amazement.
“Is he an acquaintance of yours?”
“He’s a business acquaintance.”
“Indeed.” Ashford poured himself a glass of water and took a few swallows.
Edward’s eyes leveled at him. “Father, Captain Shark is a pirate. McPhee must have done some fast talking to get him to sail us back.”
Ashford coughed, sputtering his water.
Five days later, Edward’s fever broke.
The doctor was encouraged. “Don’t overdo!” he ordered. “You could still relapse or tear open your shoulder. You are one very lucky fellow indeed, and you have that young lady to thank for it.”
Edward furrowed his brows. “A young lady? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that girl nursed over you day and night. Like a veritable mother hen, she was. Kept you alive from France to here. She waited until you were safe before she collapsed from exhaustion. Fell straight to the floor, the poor chit.”
“My God. Who was she?”
“I didn’t get her name. Haven’t seen her since the day you came in nearly a corpse.” The doctor shook his head. “Still can’t believe you survived the trip.”
Doctor Barclay briskly pulled out a pocketwatch and took Edward’s pulse. “You must remain in bed for another fortnight. No excuses. You’re still not out of the woods yet.”
“Thank you, doctor, for everything,” Edward said. He was already tiring again.
“We’ll see how much you thank me when the His Grace gets my bill.” He smiled. “I’ll check back next week. Send word sooner if your fever returns,” he said, packing his case. A moment later, the doctor left.
Edward fell back in his bed and closed his eyes. Who was this girl the doctor mentioned? He knew his father had not told him everything, apparently by a long shot. His body ached with a dull throbbing pain. He tried to put the pieces of time together since the ambush. A black abyss stretched between then and now. He hated not having all the facts.
He had dreamed he was a lad again, sailing toy ships on the pond with the brat. He was racing his horse through the fields. But then the dreams changed, and he was on another horse, draped over a saddle.
A young woman’s voice echoed in the back of his mind. She was crying. Shouting. Coaxing. Begging him not to die. He was sure she had been a dream.
He thought back to the beautiful girl in Paris, Gabrielle Demerre. He had never been so drawn like that to a woman before. He knew the danger becoming involved with her, yet he could not resist her.
There had been other women. But never had he felt any strong attachments. He always felt something was missing, not that they were necessarily flawed, but there was simply no real connection. His work kept him so busy he really had no time for emotional involvements with women.
Then in Paris, the beautiful Gabrielle Demerre, a total stranger…what was it about her? Her laugh, her spirit, even her sadness. Her presence. He had never felt more alive than with her in his arms. They had shared a glimpse of heaven amid the perils of war.
Where was she now? She gave her address at Madame Marche’s. He was somewhat familiar with the place. Occasi
onally his couriers used it. He tried to imagine her face, but he could only remember her smile and her lips. Ah yes, her lips. He should have ripped off her mask in the light of the torches to see her face, which he knew would be beautiful. Before the shooting occurred, he had intended to do just that.
Somehow her piercing blue eyes struck a deep, familiar chord. He could still see them gazing back at him through a jewel-encrusted mask. Her costume was expensive. More likely, she was the daughter of a wealthy French citizen.
Was she indeed a spy as he suspected? She had arrived on the arm of Francois Jonteau, an infamous political insurgent suspected of several diabolical schemes. He was even more renouned for his sordid affairs with beautiful women and his twisted sexual appetites. How the devil did Gabrielle ever get paired up with him?
Yet Gabrielle seemed English rather than French. She spoke both languages impeccably, but her English was cultured, in the manner one spoke who was raised and well educated in England. She was too innocent to be someone’s wife or mistress.
In his arms, she felt head-spinning, mind-melting incredible. Now she haunted his soul. Yet strangely, her voice seemed to blend into the same one pleading for him to stay alive. When he slept, he dreamed of her, longed for her. But then his dreams changed back to that desperate voice begging him not to die. So many pieces of his memory were missing since he had been wounded. Once he was back on his feet, he would solve this puzzle. And he would find her.
Edward paid his fortnight penance as ordered by the doctor. At last he was given permission to leave his bed. His shoulder still burned, but he hoped moving around would alleviate the stiffness. With assistance from James, his valet, he was finally dressed.
Gingerly, he treaded down the front staircase. It was quite an accomplishment to get to his father’s study before he collapsed.
Ashford saw him at the door and jumped up from behind his desk to help him to a chair. “Good God. What the hell are you doing out of bed?”
Leigh Sparrow Page 12
