Candlelight Wish

by Janice Bennett

  Her hair smelled of violets, he noted as she leaned close, intent on her work. It reminded him of the night they had visited the Pershings. Only then he had been rescuing her. And now— He winced, fighting back an involuntary cry as she sliced the fabric away from his wound. Damn that scoundrel! He drew a steadying breath and found she leaned over him, this time holding out his refilled glass.

  “I am sorry,” she said. She had finished with the coat. At least she had cut through the sleeve and across the breast, pulling it back to reveal the slashed and bloodied remnants of his fine linen shirt. She now set to work on this, cutting away the fabric until the ugly, jagged wound lay revealed.

  “Basilicum powder,” he muttered and was annoyed that his voice sounded hazy, as if a mere two brandies had left him cup-shot.

  “We need to remove the torn fibers of your shirt first,” she said and reached for a cloth that had been soaking in the hot water.

  He turned his head away and studied the fire that someone had lit in the grate. Lucy sat near it, her hands clasped in her lap, her wide-eyed gaze resting on him. He managed a smile for her that won no response. “It’s not as bad as all that, my girl,” he said, forcing a joking note into his voice. He winced at Phoebe’s gentle proddings, annoyed with himself that he had not been able to control the reaction.

  Lucy sniffed. “It is bleeding terribly!” she wailed.

  “What, still?” he demanded in a feeble attempt at mock alarm. “Miss Caldicot, I must protest.”

  “It is only from the washing, Lucy,” that lady said in a voice tinged with forced amusement. “Once it is clean we may put pressure on it again. If you like you may hold the bandage this time.”

  Miles glared at her. “I do not need anyone to hold anything.”

  “To be sure you do not,” she said, quite affably. “But have a consideration for your poor sister who must sit there doing nothing. It is a terrible strain on one’s nerves.”

  “Hers or mine?” he murmured.

  Phoebe’s lips twitched. “There, you are more yourself now. I shall shortly expect you to start countermanding my every instruction.”

  “My dear Miss Caldicot,” he said, his own smile somewhat wry, “I would not dare.”

  The doctor arrived a very few minutes later and after a thorough inspection of Phoebe’s handiwork, which caused Miles’ teeth to clench and the perspiration to stand out on his brow, was pleased to approve her efforts. He dusted the torn flesh with basilicum powder, stitched the skin back together then gave it one more dusting for good measure. This task complete, he wadded a pad of linen and strapped it into place with long strips that wound across his patient’s body, strapping his upper left arm to his side. Phoebe watched the proceedings with no outward sign of consternation except for a heightened color in her cheeks. Miles met her gaze and managed a smile for her but she turned away.

  The doctor pressed a glass in his hand. He swallowed a mouthful of the contents, realized it was not brandy and glared at it with suspicion.

  “Laudanum,” the man said. “You’ll be glad of it if you plan to return to London tonight as the lady says.”

  He shook his head. “Have to drive,” he said.

  A short laugh escaped the man. “Do you, now. With one hand? Best put up for the night here though you’ll find you’ll not have the use of it yet tomorrow either.”

  Miles leaned back in the chair, absently tossed off the rest of the contents then abruptly realized what he did and swore softly. The important thing at the moment was to see Lucy safe again at home with no touch of scandal clinging to her name. How that was to be avoided, with him sporting an obvious injury, he did not know. In fact he found it increasingly difficult to think with any clarity. Damn laudanum, it would probably put him to sleep if he weren’t careful.

  He forced his drooping lids open and reached out his good hand toward Phoebe, who had accompanied the departing doctor to the door. She returned to Miles’ side, taking his hand in her own and the coolness of her skin soothed him. “Got to keep this quiet,” he said and realized he mumbled.

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” She drew up a chair and settled at his side. “I believe we may count on Harwich to keep silent about his part in today’s doings out of fear of the law. Mr. Beechum—the landlord—is almost as anxious as we to avoid any scandal, especially after the shocking way he refused to listen to poor Lucy. He’ll do his utmost to keep his people from talking, though a show of generosity on your part might help. As for your shoulder and the fact Lucy or I shall be driving your curricle back into London, I believe we may best account for that with a tale of our being overturned.”

  He eyed her with disapprobation. “No one who knows me would believe that for a moment.”

  “Do you prefer highwaymen?” she inquired sweetly.

  He closed his eyes. “Oh go to the devil,” he muttered and allowed the fuzzy darkness to envelop him.

  * * * * *

  Phoebe sat in the chair, still holding Miles’ hand, feeling the solid bones, the strength of it even though he slept. Mostly her thoughts dwelled on the sight of his muscled chest with its thick covering of curling dark hair. Her cheeks warmed once more and she couldn’t keep her gaze from resting on him where the linen bandages crisscrossed his torso. She wanted to touch him and the mere prospect left her breathless.

  And as for the impropriety of her longings…

  Resolutely she turned from him, found the blanket Lucy had fetched and draped it over him. He looked so peaceful with the pain and strain released from his face. She touched his cheek, feeling the roughness of the beard that had not been scraped away since that morning. The scent of old leather and bay rum clung to him, evoking images of moonlight and gardens, of chandeliers and soft music and a country dance.

  Her palm found his and pressed against it then her fingers closed about his. Did all the caring lie on her side? A couple of times she had thought—she had hoped—he might feel something for her, something not induced by Xanthe’s magic, something more than acceptance, tolerance, liking. Friendship could be a wonderful thing. But even that was but a pale shadow of what she now knew she longed for from him.

  The door opened and with a last, lingering caress, she released his hand. “Is all ready, Lucy?” she asked as the girl came in. “Then let us see him safely to a bedchamber.”

  Lucy eyed her brother with uncertainty. “He will be very angry with us.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “Only because he did not have the ordering of it all. He will be better for the rest and glad that you have been returned to London with complete propriety. We shall send his man to him as soon as we get back and we may drive out to visit him tomorrow. When he has returned to his senses he will see that this is the best course.”

  She didn’t want to leave him. Every instinct told her to stay, to care for him. But she had to see to Lucy first. He would be all right here, she assured herself. Yet even after he had been moved to a bedchamber and tucked between sheets, she lingered at his side. Not even the promises of Mrs. Beechum to sit with him until Vines should arrive eased her distress. She wanted to be at his side though she knew there was nothing she could do that the comfortable innkeeper’s wife could not do just as well. At last, forced by the lateness of the hour, she ushered Lucy down to where the coachman and postilions waited with the chaise that had been righted and readied and they embarked for London.

  Lucy sat in silence for a very long time, staring out into the darkness of the evening, until a shaky sob escaped her. “It should have been the other way around,” she wailed. “I quite wanted Miles to run him through with a sword or put a bullet into him. It should not have been Miles who was hurt. Oh Miss Caldicot, I feel so dreadful about that.”

  “He won’t blame you,” Phoebe said with certainty.

  “I know.” Lucy sniffed, seeking her handkerchief in her reticule. “But I would much rather he ranted and railed at me. I feel so guilty.”

  The terrors and exhaustion of the
day finally took their toll and Lucy drifted off into an uneasy doze. Phoebe stared into the gathering night, her thoughts far from her surroundings. The shadowy shapes of trees and hedges faded into a remembered vision of Miles, slumped back in his chair, eyes closed, a lock of dark hair falling forward over his forehead, his chest bare except for the bandages. Thoughts like that would never do, she chided herself. With a sigh she sank back into her corner and her tired wayward mind once more returned to Miles.

  They arrived in Half Moon Street shortly after nine that night to find both Mrs. Mannering and Xanthe in the former’s house, engaged upon a game of cards. Mrs. Mannering laid these aside as they entered the room but she displayed none of the signs of a doting aunt in the throes of anxiety over the well-being of her charges. She enveloped Lucy in an embrace, listened to Phoebe’s explanations with only a few cries of dismay and sighed at the completion of the narrative.

  “You were quite right,” she said to Xanthe with a rueful smile. “They were perfectly capable of handling matters on their own. But poor Miles.” She shook her head. “I suppose I cannot be seen to race to his side but Vines shall depart at once.”

  It actually took half an hour for that devoted servitor to pack into two valises extra bandages, salves, balms and every other item he felt necessary for his master’s comfort and well-being and depart to take up his vigil. In the meantime the others were not idle. Even before Vines set forth in the hired chaise that had been fitted with new horses, Phoebe and Lucy found themselves hustled into evening gowns by their respective chaperons then into Xanthe’s barouche for the short drive to Lady Denville’s rout party.

  They were not even late, Phoebe reflected as they mounted the steps to their hostess’s drawing rooms. They had a ready explanation of Miles’ having received an urgent summons to return to his estates and Lucy blithely assured all inquirers that she expected him back in town within a day or two. Phoebe watched the girl with growing pride. With all the cause in the world to indulge in a fit of the vapors, still Lucy conducted herself with admirable control. A haunted look might linger in her glittering eyes and her laugh might sound brittle but no one could guess that within the preceding eight hours she had been abducted and seen her brother shot.

  At her side, Lucy emitted a soft, “Oh!”

  Phoebe turned in time to see Ashby standing in the doorway, his gaze scanning the room. The next moment he set forth to greet his hostess. Lucy started forward after him then checked herself and cast an apologetic glance toward Phoebe. With a slight gesture of her head, Phoebe brought Lucy back to where Mrs. Mannering sat in a corner beside a potted palm, deep in conversation with a frail elderly woman who bore all the appearance of an impoverished relative elevated to the role of chaperone.

  Lucy took a chair at her aunt’s side but her gaze returned to Ashby. That gentleman, having paid his respects, turned to survey the room through his quizzing glass. His gaze fell on Lucy and he allowed his glass to drop as he strolled toward her, pausing only to greet his numerous acquaintances. Within a few minutes he was bowing before Mrs. Mannering then turning to take Lucy’s hand.

  A slight crease formed in his brow. “What’s toward, m’girl?”

  She returned the pressure of his fingers. “Oh, Simon, how very glad I am to see you.” Her voice, so strictly controlled until now, trembled.

  An arrested expression flickered in his eyes and very slowly, his gaze still holding hers, he raised the hand he still clasped to his lips. Her eyes widened and for a very long moment she simply stared at him. Smiling down at her, he seated himself at her side. “You may tell me about it presently when there aren’t so many people around,” he said softly, then embarked on one of his amusing tales about his cousin’s litter of puppies, now eight weeks old.

  To Phoebe’s satisfaction the haggard lines faded from around Lucy’s eyes. Now if only Miles were here to soothe her own troubled spirits… But then if he were here and uninjured she would not be suffering such distress.

  She strolled away to exchange greetings with the elderly General Fotheringham then drifted off to stand with two other young ladies. Lucy, she noted, had accompanied Ashby to the refreshments table and they conversed with Lady Maria Sparling and her son, Viscount Dreydon. Lucy’s reputation, she reflected, was safe. After an hour of thus mingling with their fellow guests, no one would ever believe that anything untoward had occurred that day. Lucy derived strength and comfort from Ashby and he— Phoebe smiled. He basked in this unaccustomed role of Lucy’s chosen supporter.

  She detached herself from her companions and moved on to join another group. What she really wanted to do of course was to go home. No, that wasn’t true. She wanted to return to the inn and sit by Miles’ bedside, tend to him, reassure herself he would be all right. But she couldn’t do that. All she could do for him at the moment was stand by his sister.

  At last they made their excuses and headed home. By then the shocks of the day had begun to wear off and it occurred to Phoebe that she wanted a word in private with her godmother. Not until after they had seen Lucy and Mrs. Mannering into their house though and had entered their own home could Phoebe hope for the chance. As soon as the maid who waited on her had finished preparing her for bed, Phoebe slipped out of her room and across the hall where she rapped with impatient knuckles on Xanthe’s door. It opened of its own volition, allowing Phoebe to step inside.

  At first glance the room appeared empty. Suspicious, Phoebe peered about for some sign of her unpredictable fairy godmother but saw only Titus sprawled across the bed, bathing his large expanse of stomach. “Where is she?” she demanded of the feline.

  Titus paused in his ablutions, blinked at her, emitted a short “myap” sound and looked in the direction of the candle that burned bright on the dressing table.

  The glow expanded, haloing outward in an ever-increasing circle then began to take on a vaguely human form. Phoebe watched, her arms folded before her, not in the mood to be impressed. Luminescent wings took shape and a single gold-tipped feather drifted to the floor. Xanthe stood before her, eyebrows raised questioningly, amusement hovering about her mouth.

  Phoebe waited several seconds longer until Xanthe’s display had come to an end then said, “You went away on purpose today and took Mrs. Mannering with you!”

  The wings closed then opened once more and a puzzled expression entered Xanthe’s luminous eyes. “Of course I did, my love. Did you not guess it from the start?”

  “How could you? Had you no thought for what might have happened to Lucy?”

  “I had every thought for it. As well as to what might happen to you.”

  “And to Sir Miles?” This Phoebe said through clenched teeth. “Madam, he was shot!”

  Xanthe nodded. “But not injured severely. No, I believe everything progresses quite well.”

  “Well? Do you mean to tell me you intended all this to happen?”

  “Not in the least. My dear, I had nothing to do with Lucilla’s abduction. I merely refrained from interfering with it. As I have told you before, I do not control outcomes, I merely provide opportunities. Each of you chose how you would behave today. And I must say, you all handled it extremely well.”

  “And what if Lucy had been harmed?” she demanded.

  At that, a tinge of guilt crept over Xanthe’s expression. “I did bend my rules a little,” she admitted. “Lucy was safe from any harm the entire time.”

  “But not Miles!”

  “No,” she agreed. “Not Sir Miles. He, like you, must make his own choices.”

  Phoebe considered that for a moment. “And what happens now?”

  “Now?” Xanthe gave her that infuriatingly enigmatic smile. “Now we wait and see.”

  “Wait” proved the apt word. Mrs. Mannering and Lucy made the journey to visit Miles the following morning, escorted by Lord Ashby. Phoebe did not. Listless, she accompanied her godmother on a round of morning visits then settled in the library to read a book that totally failed to hold her atten
tion. She kept looking at the clock, knowing that did no good. They would probably remain with him for the entire day and not return until evening. But just after she had gone upstairs to change into a carriage dress for the afternoon Promenade in the park, Lucy arrived, breathless and happy, to inform her that her brother was once more safe beneath their own roof.

  “I cannot but be glad,” the girl said, “but he is so dreadfully pale, I do wish he had remained another day at the inn.”

  “Could you not have prevailed upon him?” Phoebe exclaimed though she knew his stubbornness well enough to know that once he had made up his mind, there would be no swaying him.

  “We had not the chance,” Lucy explained, “for we met him on the road and less than five miles from London too. And he was as sulky as a bear because he could not drive his own pair and he says that Vines is heavy handed. He was quite out of temper and most uncivil when I suggested that I might drive his curricle for him. He actually accused me of being likely to overturn him in a ditch, as if I could be so cow-handed! And he would not enter Aunt Jane’s chaise even though we told him he should be ever so much more comfortable in it. So Simon drove him.”

  “I am sure he much preferred it that way. Is-is he very cross with me?”

  Lucy cast her a glance from beneath her lashes. “He was pleased to hear we had attended the rout party last night.”

  But not, Phoebe wagered, that they had left him at the inn. She smoothed the wrinkle her fingers had creased in her skirt and said in an offhand manner, “Is he up to receiving visitors?”

  Lucy eyed her dubiously. “The doctor has given him more laudanum though there was quite an argument over his taking it. He did charge me with a message for you though. He says he shall pay you a morning visit on the morrow.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask whether he would be up to dressing and paying a formal call but she bit it back. He would do precisely as he wished no matter what she said. Which left her only to await what she suspected would be an uncomfortable and highly formal interview the next day.