by Mia Marlowe
Oh, that’s right. He’s John Fitzhugh, a new footman. No, that wasn’t it. He was… This tall man with Sadie’s eyes…he was… Oh Lord, he has her eyes.
“My son,” he said. “You’re my son.”
“Yes, my lord.” The man glanced up at him and then down at the still fellow on the ground again. “Yes, I am, and I’m gladder than I can tell you to hear you say so, but right now I need your help. Porter has been shot.”
“I know. I did it. I thought he was a deer.” Even though this was a horrible turn of events, it felt right to take responsibility for it. That was what a man did, wasn’t it? Porter was lying facedown in the bracken. He didn’t so much as twitch a muscle. Somerset’s heart clenched like a fist. “Is…is he dead?”
“No, only fainted. You shot him in the bum. I doubt it’s mortal, but he’ll need a pillow to sit on for a while. Here, my lady, can you carry the weapons?” John handed his rifle to the woman who was gamely holding a lacy handkerchief to the valet’s backside to stanch the bleeding. “Come help me, sir. We need to carry him back to the house and call a doctor.”
“Dr. Partridge.” Somerset was surprised at how quickly that name sprang to his lips. Perhaps the mist in his mind was clearing again. “A good man, that. Partridge will see Mr. Porter right as rain.”
Somerset knelt and helped his son lift the valet from the forest floor. His son, his lost son, his heir. Where did he lose such a fine young man? How could he have allowed such a terrible thing to occur? How did he happen to find him again? He shoved those questions aside for the moment and concentrated on the job at hand. With him on one side of Mr. Porter and his son John on the other, they started carrying the valet through the woods. The lady who’d been accompanying Lord Hartley followed after them, helpfully bearing the weapons and refraining admirably from female histrionics.
Somerset’s bearer came puffing up to them then. “Here, your lordship. Let me take your place.”
“No, it’s my responsibility, Dawson.” His servant’s name suddenly came nimbly to Somerset’s tongue. Even though he’d shot a faithful retainer like Porter, his heart lightened. His mind was his own, for the moment at least. “I’ll carry Mr. Porter home. My son John will help me.”
* * *
“There you are, Mr. Porter,” Dr. Partridge said as he tied off the last stitch on Porter’s throbbing bum. The sweet, tarry smell of carbolic soap used to scrub the wound still lingered in the air and burned his insulted flesh.
Porter gripped the iron rail at the foot of his bed to keep from crying out. He’d already disgraced himself by fainting away like a little girl at the sight of his own blood. The last thing he wanted to do was squeal like one.
“The bullet went through the…ahem…gluteus maximus and out again without doing any lasting damage. A fairly shallow wound track for a gun shot,” Dr. Partridge said. “You’ll be sore for a while, but all things considered, you’re a very lucky man, Mr. Porter.”
Porter didn’t feel very lucky. He felt very humiliated.
“I’d like to see this left to the open air to heal, but I don’t suppose that’s practical,” the doctor said.
“No, indeed,” Porter said through clenched teeth. Bad enough to have been shot in the backside; he wasn’t about to lie there with his nether crack smiling at the ceiling, his buttocks bare as a matched pair of river stones. Not even if, as Lord Hartley’s valet, he did rate his own room in the servants’ wing, and it was unlikely anyone would barge in and see him.
“Well, then, this bandage will have to do for now. I’ll be back tomorrow to see how you’re getting on.” Dr. Partridge repacked his supplies into his medical bag and covered Porter with a sheet up to the waist.
Porter was still in his shirtsleeves, so he was more or less decently covered. He breathed a relieved sigh.
“I expect you’ll be uncomfortable tonight, but I don’t recommend doses of laudanum for this sort of thing,” the doctor said. “Too easy to lean on that particular crutch.”
“No, I wouldn’t have it, in any case. Thank ye kindly.” He wouldn’t say no to a dose of Mr. Hightower’s private stash of spirits. He thought a tot of rum was likely not to be forthcoming though. The butler was very parsimonious with liquor for the below stairs staff.
“Doctor,” Porter said, stopping him as he reached the door. “Does…does everyone know where I was shot?”
Dr. Partridge’s lips pursed in an amused moue. “I wish I could say no, but Toby relieved Lord Somerset when he and Lord Hartley were bearing you up the stairs. He learned about the location of your…wound and…” A chuckle escaped his lips. “You mustn’t blame the young fellow. It’s just too good to keep.”
The doctor slipped out the door and Porter quietly banged his forehead against the iron footboard. He’d be a laughingstock for weeks…months…possibly years. How would he ever face the rest of the below stairs folk?
Most especially, how would he face Mrs. Culpepper?
Then, as if he’d conjured her, she opened his door with her helper, Theresa, at her side, bearing a supper tray.
“Oh, good. Ye’re awake, Mr. Porter.”
He’d give anything to be able to faint again right now. He’d felt decently covered a moment ago, but he was wearing only his shirt. Without his jacket, he’d be considered as good as naked so far as society was concerned if he were standing upright. Crivens! Beneath the sheets, he was naked from the waist down, barring his stockings. What on earth was the woman thinking to come to his room like this?
“Theresa, set that tray down and then hie yourself back to the common room.” The cook moved the only chair in the room from its place in the corner to his bedside. “Mr. Hightower will be wanting tea for the others, and ye’ll have to see to it. Make me proud, girl.”
“Yes, Mrs. C. I hope you’re feeling better, Mr. Porter,” the girl said between suppressed giggles.
“Never ye mind about how the man feels. How should he feel after being shot in his nethers?” Mrs. Culpepper drew herself up to her full yet unimpressive height as she continued to scold the girl. “Just ye keep your mind on your work and your hands busy. If I hear ye’ve been mooning around in the gallery again when ye think no one sees, I’ll send ye packing, and that’s a promise. Now scoot.”
Theresa scurried out of the room as if her skirt were on fire.
“Well then, how can I make ye more comfortable?” Mrs. C asked.
By pretending I’m not lying here with naught on my backside but a bit of gauze and a thin sheet of linen. But of course, he couldn’t say that. “Perhaps a pillow from the head of the bed?”
“Of course.” In her brusque way, Mrs. Culpepper made a strange angel of mercy, but Porter did feel marginally better when she plumped the pillow and positioned it so he could lay his forehead on feathers instead of banging it on iron.
“Now, I know ye likely wish to sleep, but if ye can hold up your head for only a bit, I’ll help ye with a bite or two.” She plopped into the chair and took up the soup bowl and spoon.
“Do ye think that’s wise? I mean, ought ye to be in my room as long as that will take? Alone, I mean.”
“I’m not alone, silly.” She gave his shoulder a playful swat. “I’m with ye.”
“But your reputation…”
“Honestly, Mr. Porter, if ye feel up to threatening my reputation after taking a gunshot wound to the bum, I’ll swear that Dr. Partridge is some sort of miracle worker.” She tilted her head at him. “Ye don’t feel up to that, do ye?”
He sighed and plopped his head down on his pillow. “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”
Mrs. Culpepper loosed a chortling laugh. “Well, we shall have to see about building up the flesh then. Come now. Lift your head and have some of my chicken soup. It’ll have ye fit to chase me ’round the bedpost in no time.”
“Mrs. C!” Porter’s conventional
soul was deeply scandalized.
“Well, did ye not say the spirit was willing?” Her eyes sparkled like a green girl’s.
“Yes, I did. I do. It is. I mean, I’d…well, what I want is…”
She held a spoonful of the soup a few inches from his mouth. “Yes?”
“Will ye walk out with me sometime?” He took the offered spoonful so he wouldn’t be expected to say more.
“That I will,” Mrs. C said. “But let’s get ye feeling up to it first. Have a bit more of my soup. That’ll put ye to rights.”
The soup was savory and rich, with much more chicken in it than usually appeared in the common-table fare. After a few spoonfuls, she laid the spoon and bowl aside.
“Actually, Mr. Porter, I was hoping ye’d ask for summat more than for me to walk out with ye some night.”
“Oh? I can’t imagine what more I could wish for. After all, I couldn’t expect…that is, I mean… Well, I know I’m not a handsome man.”
A smile lifted her cheeks. “Handsome is as handsome does, my old mam used to say. Reckon ye’re handsome enough by those lights.”
“Well, then, I guess…that is to say, I’ve heard tell…” Frustrated with his own hemming and hawing, Porter came to the point. “They do say that when one has suffered an injury, a kiss makes it all better.”
Mrs. Culpepper broke into peals of laughter. “Surely, Mr. P, ye can’t expect me to kiss ye there!”
“No, no indeed.” He blushed so furiously and so hotly he was sure even his bum had a rose glow. “I meant…” He put a finger to his lips, unable to say the words.
“Well, if that’s the way of it, of course I’ll kiss ye and make ye better.”
Mrs. Culpepper knelt beside his bed and took his face between her work-roughened palms. Then she brought her lips to his.
All of a sudden, he didn’t feel gawky and awkward and like a man about to slide into the twilight years of his adult life. Porter felt strong. Capable. Handsome.
In a wholly unconventional sort of way, of course.
Then Mrs. C pulled back and sat on the chair again as she launched into a one-sided conversation about the dainties and trifles she’d been called upon to make for the upcoming ball a few days hence, all the while spooning her nourishing soup into his mouth. She didn’t mention the kiss. Talking about what had just passed between them would only detract from the magic of it.
At least, it had been magical for him.
Porter sighed. The woman was a goddess in an apron, and she’d kissed him.
He was beginning to feel lucky after all. Very lucky indeed.
Twenty-four
The cautionary tale of Faust aside, sometimes a deal with the devil is the only deal one can make.
—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset
It had been a week since John told Rebecca of his plan to court Lady Chloe openly so as to confound his family’s designs for him. He’d done so with devastating conviction. Lady Chloe still accompanied him when he went on his daily hunt, even after the unfortunate accident with his valet. She sat beside him at supper each evening, and if there were any games to be played after the meal, she was always hovering nearby.
To interested observers, and they were legion in the great house, it seemed the merry widow held Lord Hartley under her spell and he was well on the way to becoming her husband number five. Freddie and the rest of the hopeful debutantes were understandably distressed.
If John hadn’t continued to slip short love notes into Rebecca’s pocket or under her chamber door at least once a day, she’d have been tempted to believe the night he’d declared his love for her was only a dream.
However, his scheme seemed to be working. The dowager marchioness was beside herself over this turn of events.
“My dear, I thought you understood that you were to assist my grandson in the proper way to woo a lady,” she said to Rebecca over her after-supper sherry. On this particular evening, the gentlemen and ladies had not split up along lines of gender, and the whole party congregated in Somerfield Park’s massive drawing room. The dowager eyed her grandson across the room with a pointed look.
Rebecca did not follow suit. She didn’t need to look at John to know that Lady Chloe was there with him, hanging on his every word.
“He seems to be doing quite well with wooing and needs no instruction from me.”
The entire house party was spread out in a glittering array, the beau monde in miniature with all its foibles, pettiness, and grandeur. Tables had been set up for numerous card games. Even Lord Somerset was evidently feeling up to taking part in the lively game of charades in one corner. He and his lovely wife were in the center of a boisterous circle of players. Since he’d accidentally shot John’s valet, his lordship had become much more gregarious. It was odd in the extreme, but Rebecca had reached the point where nothing about the Barrett family surprised her.
John was in the opposite corner, playing loo with a group of five others, and try as she might, Rebecca couldn’t keep her gaze from straying there. One of the other players was the ubiquitous Lady Chloe. She leaned toward him to whisper into his ear. Whatever she’d said must have been amusing because he laughed loudly enough to be heard across the room. Rebecca’s insides did a slow burn.
“Perhaps I did not make myself clear,” the dowager said. “Gentlemen need guidance, and gentlemen who are courting need it most of all. It is not Hartley’s method of wooing which troubles me, but the object of said wooing.”
“On that score I cannot help,” Rebecca said. “Your grandson seems to have made his choice.”
The dowager leaned toward her. “Then we shall have to unmake it for him.”
“How?”
The dowager frowned. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you for help, would I?”
“Have you spoken to him about Lady Chloe?”
“I daresay anything I said on the subject would be tantamount to tossing more kindling on an already roaring fire. If I try to dissuade him from this misalliance, he’s more apt to flee toward it.” She drummed her bejeweled fingers on the arm of her overstuffed chair. “He’s as stubborn as his father on that score.”
“Have you spoken to the lady, then?”
The dowager made an undignified noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, though she would have denied with her final breath that one of her exalted rank was capable of such a vulgar response. “Lady Chloe is not like John’s mother.”
“You mean she cannot be bought.”
“It’s not only that, though heaven knows the fact that Lady Chloe is independently wealthy does make it difficult to tempt her with more. The money was a secondary consideration for John’s mother.” The dowager’s eyes took on a slightly hazy glaze as she reached for the distant memory of the last time she’d interfered in a match involving one of her progeny. “It’s true that she was dazzled by the prospect of her own funds and the freedom to use them as she wished, but she was also motivated by her feelings for my son. She realized she’d damage him by staying with him. They were from two different worlds. She could never have hoped to span the chasm between them. She would have diminished him forever.”
That wasn’t only the dowager’s opinion, Rebecca realized. There was nothing the bon ton hated so much as a disruption in the natural order of things. An opera dancer as a marchioness would have offended their collective souls so deeply that they would have been merciless over the uneven match.
Would they feel the same about the daughter of a debt-riddled baron? No, Rebecca assured herself. If the Barrett family accepted the match, gossips would say Lord Hartley had married beneath him and that Rebecca had done exceedingly well for herself. That should be the end of it.
“Lady Chloe, however, is not motivated by her feelings for my grandson,” Lady Somerset went on as if there hadn’t been a lull in the conversation. “She is
without doubt the most self-centered person I’ve ever encountered, and I’ve met the prince regent on numerous occasions, so that’s saying something. Lady Chloe’s own wishes are her sole guide. She rules by fiat and expects the rest of the world to fall willy-nilly in line with her plans.”
Well, if that wasn’t a case of the pot coming face to face with the kettle, Rebecca didn’t know what was. However, she didn’t think Lady Somerset would appreciate having her similarities to Lady Chloe pointed out to her.
“So you see, we must make Hartley see reason, and you’re just the one to help him do it,” Lady Somerset said. “He must make a different choice.”
“Whom did you have in mind?”
The dowager surveyed the room. If she said even Rebecca would be preferable to Lady Chloe, John’s plan would have succeeded and the farce could end. Instead, Lady Somerset’s gaze fell upon Rebecca’s friend.
“Lady Winifred would be ideal. Such a bright young lady and, more importantly, so well-connected. Or the Earl of Montfort’s daughter. Her name escapes me at the moment, but she’s biddable as a lamb. She’d be an excellent choice.” A biddable wife for Lord Hartley meant Lady Somerset could continue to rule Somerfield Park by means subtle and overt even after her son’s tenure as marquess was over. “In truth, any unattached young lady in this room would be an acceptable improvement over that…that woman.”
It wasn’t a ringing endorsement of Rebecca, but at least she might consider herself lumped in with the “acceptables.” It was a start.
The dowager shot a smoldering glare across the room that by rights should have reduced Lady Chloe, as well as anyone within ten feet of her, to smoking cinders.
“Go talk to him, Rebecca.”
“What? Now?”
“Yes, at once, before you lose your train of thought.”
She was quite capable of keeping a train of thought where John was concerned, thank you very much. But extricating him from an active card game was a daunting prospect. “What would I say to him?”
