Scandalous

by Karen Robards

  “The colors and materials I chose are entirely suitable for my age and station, Miss Beth, and the finished gowns will be far finer than any I have heretofore possessed.”

  “Sad to say, that’s true for all of us, Twindle,” Claire said with a rueful twinkle.

  “Because Papa was such a nip-farthing,” Beth exclaimed. Chewing her lower lip, she glanced at Gabby. “You don’t suppose our brother takes after him in that way, do you? How lowering it would be if he ordered us to send it all back.”

  “Our brother Wickham,” Gabby said firmly, refusing to allow so much as a single image of the odious creature to enter her mind, “will be delighted to see us looking our best.”

  She had not the slightest idea what the rogue’s feelings would in fact be if he should, by some remote chance, see what was sure to be a staggering bill, and she didn’t care. Although it was not, properly speaking, their money, it was far more their money than his, at least. Of course, if one were being strictly honest, every last farthing now rightfully belonged to Cousin Thomas. But Gabby was determined not to think about that. There was no point in letting the rights and wrongs of the situation trouble her. She had made her choice, and meant to stick to it. Claire was going to come out in style just as she deserved, and that was all there was to it. Under the circumstances Wickham was certainly not going to be allowed to control her purse strings. He might count himself lucky that he was not even now cooling his heels in gaol. In any case, it was highly unlikely that he would even see the bills. She had directed that they be sent straight to Mr. Challow for payment.

  Smiling determinedly, she said, “That fawn-colored walking dress you are wearing becomes you to admiration, Claire.”

  “Yes, did you not see those two gentlemen ogling her on the street? I must say, Claire, despite all your faults you are possessed of a positively staggering degree of beauty.” Beth spoke as one stating an immutable law of the universe, rather than with any hint of envy.

  “Faults? I?” Claire stuck her nose up in the air, looked down it at Beth, then laughed. “You are very pretty yourself, Beth, and that particular shade of green in your dress makes your hair look the color of copper.”

  “No, does it really?” Beth beamed in delight at the compliment, and smoothed a hand over the folds of her new olive-figured muslin with obvious pleasure. “Do you think it might be actually growing darker? Being cursed with carrot-colored hair is the most maddening thing in the world.”

  “Be thankful you don’t have freckles to go with it,” Claire advised. Beth found herself so much in agreement with this that the two of them conversed in perfect amity for the remainder of the ride home.

  They returned home to find Cousin Thomas waiting for them in the drawing room. Tall, thin, and balding, with a perpetually worried look on his rather long face, Cousin Thomas rose abruptly from the gilt-armed sofa as they entered. Although their last meeting had been less than warm, Gabby greeted him with a smile and a handshake. Claire and Beth, taking their cue from her, followed suit.

  After exchanging the usual pleasantries, Cousin Thomas got right to the point.

  “I’ve heard—things will get around, you know—that Wickham’s arrived from Ceylon to take his place as head of the family, and that he’s somehow managed to get himself shot. What truth is there in that, if you please?”

  Lying should, Gabby thought with despair, be almost second nature to her now, but it was not. She felt more than one pang of conscience as she agreed that Wickham was, indeed, abovestairs at that very moment, and, was moreover, slightly wounded from an accidentally self-inflicted gunshot. If it had not been for Claire and Beth’s innocent corroboration, Cousin Thomas might well have been able to divine from her scrambled account of events that she was telling less than the truth, Gabby thought worriedly, and vowed to do better in future. After all, she was in too deep—by far too deep—to climb out now.

  When Cousin Thomas left, with assurances that he would send Lady Maud and his daughters to call on them as soon as they returned to town from a visit to the older girl’s new in-laws, Gabby roused herself to one last effort and wrote a note to Lady Salcombe announcing that she and her sisters were in town and begging permission to call without delay. Then, worn out from the events of the past two days, desperate to escape from Beth and Claire’s chatter, Gabby retired to bed shortly after the evening meal. Despite her exhaustion, however, once laid down upon her bed she found herself quite unable to sleep. Her leg and hip ached like a sore tooth, the jarring they had suffered when she fell in the hall aggravated, no doubt, by all the walking she had done that day. To add to her inability to rest, faint sounds from the adjoining chamber reminded her of the unsavory characters separated from her by no more substantial a barrier than a locked door. Having learned from Stivers that Dr. Ormsby had been by, and that my lord was still far from being in prime twig, she judged herself fairly safe from attack, from my lord at least. But still, Jem’s dire warnings rang in her ears. Thanks to her faithful servant, every time she closed her eyes she was afflicted with hideous visions of Barnet’s hulking form creeping into her bedchamber to put a pillow over her face. In the end, she was obliged to get up, locate a small glass jar on her dressing table, empty it of its contents, and balance it upon the knob of the door that opened from the earl’s chamber into hers. As a final precaution, she took the fireplace poker back into bed with her. Finally, with such reasonable safeguards in place, she managed to fall asleep.

  Only to be roused, in what she judged must be the dead of the night, by the sudden smashing of the jar upon the floor. Jackknifing upright, blinking in the direction of that telltale sound, she was horrified to perceive, backlit against her dressing room door, a huge male figure striding toward her bed.

  Gasping, eyes big as plates, she groped frantically among the tumbled bedclothes for the poker.

  13

  If it was a race, Gabby was determined to win it. Heart pounding, fists clenched around the poker, Gabby kicked free of the bedclothes, scrambled to the opposite side of the bed, and rolled to her feet before the man—whom she now recognized as Barnet—could get his hands on her. Hefting the poker in both hands now—the thing was surprisingly heavy—and raising it high overhead, she faced the intruder with pulse racing and teeth bared.

  “Stay back. Stay back or I’ll scream.” Her voice shook. In fact, she wasn’t entirely certain that she could scream. Her mouth was suddenly so dry with fear that it was difficult even to force out words.

  “Miss! Miss, it’s the Cap’n.” If Barnet heard her threat, it didn’t deter him. Huge and menacing-looking, he didn’t so much as check his headlong rush, but came right around the bed toward her, backing her into a corner, spurring her to brandish the poker threateningly even as the hair stood straight up on the back of her neck.

  “Get out of here. I’ll hit you. . . .”

  But it was too late. He was already on top of her and she couldn’t hit him, couldn’t cleave his skull in two, couldn’t separate his head from his shoulders with a swing of the poker as she desperately wished to do, for the simple reason that he grabbed the iron bar almost casually and held on with one hamlike fist.

  Gabby gaped up at him.

  “ ’E’s in a bad way, miss, you gotta ’elp me.”

  Her back was pressed against the cool plaster wall. Her head was tilted as she stared fearfully up at the giant towering above her, who controlled the only defense she had with one-handed ease. Clinging desperately to the poker’s handle, she cast a frantic glance sideways in search of something, anything, she could use as a weapon instead.

  “Miss, please. ’E’s out of ’is ’ead, and I don’t want to be callin’ no one else to ’elp me ’cause of what ’e might say.” Barnet was antsy, unable to stand still, shifting from foot to foot and casting fearful glances over his shoulder toward the Earl’s room even as he spoke. The tension in Gabby’s muscles eased abruptly as she realized that, despite his precipitous entrance, Barnet was not threatening h
er. He was, instead, entreating her. “I need you to come along o’ me now, miss. I dursn’t leave ’im longer.”

  “You need my help?” Gabby asked cautiously. Except for the faint light cast by the banked-down fire, her bedroom was dark. It was impossible to see anything of Barnet except the bare outline of his bulk. He stood so close to her that she was getting a crick in her neck from looking up. His hand retained its almost incidental grip on the poker, and, realizing the futility of continuing to hold on, Gabby finally let go.

  A faint groan and a series of muffled sounds from the earl’s apartments answered before Barnet could.

  “Eh, ’e’s thrashin’ ’imself into the grave,” Barnet said in a despairing tone. Tossing the poker onto the bed, he turned and padded back toward the earl’s chamber. He had, Gabby realized, discarded his boots, and she found herself thinking fleetingly of the possibly unfelicitous consequences of mixing broken glass with stocking feet. Before he disappeared into the dressing room he glanced back over his shoulder at her. “Come on, miss.”

  Retrieving the poker—not that it had been any help so far, but one never knew—Gabby grabbed her wrapper from the foot of the bed and cautiously followed him, careful to step over the pieces of glass scattered across the dressing room floor. A key left sticking out of Wickham’s side of the door linking their apartments told Gabby just how easy entering her room had been.

  She’d been right to booby-trap that door.

  The sight that greeted Gabby as she paused for a moment on the threshold caused her eyes to widen. The bedchamber was lit by a branch of candles on the table near the bed and the fire blazed brightly in the hearth. The room was warm, far warmer than her own, and the slightly pungent smell of medicine hung in the air. Now far removed from the insolent beast who had insulted her earlier, Wickham lay flat on his back in the center of the bed, spread-eagled, writhing, his hands and feet tied to the posts with strips of cloth. He was clad only in a linen nightshirt that had rucked up above his knees.

  Gabby noticed, while trying hard not to, that his legs were long and muscular and roughened by dark hair.

  You have the most kissable mouth. His words came back to her, unbidden. Detestable man, she should despise him for daring to say such a thing to her. And she did. She did. Only, she couldn’t seem to get his words out of her mind.

  “Marcus! Damn it, Marcus. Oh, God, too late . . .” Wickham was obviously delirious, twisting and struggling, held fast by the strips of cloth that bound him to the bedposts.

  “Who is he?” The question emerged of its own accord as she stared aghast at the struggling figure. He had known her brother, that much was clear. Known her brother, and known of his death. Her gaze switched back to Barnet. “Who are you?” Her voice was fierce.

  “ ’Tis all over now, Cap’n. Don’t go fashin’ yourself, ’ear?” Barnet ignored her as he leaned over the bed, gripping his master’s shoulders with both hands in a vain attempt to quiet him.

  “You have him tied down.” Gabby realized that she was not going to get an answer to her question at the moment, and let it go. Had she really expected Barnet to enlighten her? No.

  “ ’Twas all I knew to do. ’E don’t know where ’e is. ’E kept tryin’ to get up.” Barnet met her gaze, his voice ragged. He was in breeches and shirtsleeves, his face sagging and puffy with exhaustion, with the dark arc of a bruise underlining one weary-looking eye. “That bloody—beggin’ your pardon, miss—the surgeon saw the fever was on ’im when ’e last came, but could do no better than bleed ’im and leave behind a physic for me to give ’im. The medicine don’t seem to be doin’ no good, and. . . .” Barnet kept talking, but his subsequent words were drowned out by Wickham’s shout.

  “Ah, Marcus. I should have . . . No, no. I came as quickly as I could. . . .” Wickham was struggling in earnest now, straining at his bonds, his torso coming off the mattress in a violent arc.

  “ ’ere, Cap’n, no.” Barnet cast himself across his master’s struggling form, forcing him down, all the while talking to him as one would a fractious horse or child. “ ’Tis all right, ’old on now.”

  Barnet glanced up as Gabby, having put down the poker, pulled on her wrapper and tied it as she came, reached the bedside. Wickham looked haggard, she saw at a glance. He was more gray than pale, with a thick stubble shadowing his cheeks and chin; his black hair stood all on end; the stubby crescents of his lashes flickered as they lay against his cheeks, and his lips moved soundlessly.

  Had it been only that morning that she had fed him broth?

  “He has deteriorated alarmingly,” she said in a hushed tone.

  “Aye, I’m sore afeared you’ve done for ’im, miss,” Barnet groaned as Wickham’s agitation continued unabated.

  Gabby was conscious of a niggling stab of remorse. Had she really needed to shoot the man? Then she remembered his threats, and the feel of his hands around her neck, and gave herself a mental shake: yes, she had.

  “I’m very sorry for the state he’s in, of course, but as you well know he brought it on himself,” Gabby’s voice was firmer now. Castigating herself did no good at all, and clearly someone needed to take charge.

  Barnet cast her a reproachful look. “ ’E’s burning up, miss. The sawbones said to expect some fever, but this is more than that, I think.”

  Gabby nodded.

  “Shh, it’s all right,” she said to the man in the bed. Then, gingerly pushing stray locks of his fever-matted black hair aside, Gabby placed her hand palm down upon Wickham’s brow. His skin was dry and hot as a stove. The coolness of her touch seemed to penetrate the fog he was lost in, because his movements ceased and his eyes blinked open. For an instant, no longer, Gabby found herself staring into the indigo depths of his eyes.

  “Consuela,” he croaked, as if his throat hurt. “My lovely impure, I would if I could, my dear, but not now. I—I find myself a trifle in—indisposed.”

  Gabby snatched her hand away as if he had snapped at it. His eyelids drooped again. He gave a deep sigh as his head turned to the side, and seemed to sleep.

  “ ’E don’t know what ’e’s sayin’, miss,” Barnet said excusingly, although the tips of his ears had turned a trifle red. He sat up with some caution. “Out of ’is ’ead, ’e is.”

  “His fever must be brought down.” Gabby chose to ignore both Wickham’s utterances and Barnet’s shamefaced apology. “The surgeon must be sent for.”

  Barnet shook his head. “Miss, we dursn’t. The things ’e says—it’s too risky, miss. ’Tis not just ’is own secrets, which be bad enough, but—but other things as well, that ’e be going on about.”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, Gabby looked him in the eye as he came to his feet beside the bed. “What other things? Who is he, Barnet? I have a right to know.”

  Barnet met her gaze and seemed to hesitate.

  Gabby persisted. “You call him Captain, which to my mind makes him a military man, and it is obvious that he knew my brother. And now you talk of secrets. I would feel much easier in my mind if you would tell me the truth of the matter. Otherwise I find I tend to imagine the worst—that the pair of you are escapees from Newgate, or Bedlam, perhaps.”

  A slight smile cracked the granite of Barnet’s worried face. “ ’Tis not so bad as that, miss, I give you my word. But ’tis for the Cap’n, not me, to tell you the rest, an ’e chooses.”

  “God, it’s hot. Damned sun. So hot. . . .” Wickham began to thrash and mutter again. “Water. Please, water. . . .”

  “You shall have water,” Gabby promised, softening in spite of herself as she touched his burning hot cheek in an attempt to penetrate his delirium. She glanced at Barnet. “The surgeon must and shall be sent for.”

  Barnet met her gaze, appeared as if he would argue more, then bowed his head in acquiescence. After helping the servant get several spoonfuls of water into Wickham’s greedy mouth, Gabby retired to her own room. There she pulled the bell rope and sent a sleepy-eyed Mary to summon a footman to rous
t Ormsby from his lodging. As an afterthought, she sent another footman to fetch Jem from his bed in the mews, on the not inconsiderable chance that more brute force than could be provided by Barnet alone might be required to handle Wickham. She then proceeded to dress, although dawn was just then sending feelers of light over the horizon. For the purposes of the sickroom, she told a yawning Mary, the remaining mourning gowns she had brought with her from Yorkshire would be just the thing.

  Jem arrived before Ormsby. Barnet admitted him to the earl’s chamber. As Jem stepped inside the two servants glared at each other with mutual hostility, and for a ludicrous instant circled each other like stiff-legged dogs. Finally, in response to a sharp call to order by Gabby, both moved to stand by the bed, one on either side. In a low voice, Gabby explained the situation to Jem, who cast darkling looks at the scowling Barnet all the while. Before Jem could do more than get started on a low-voiced but heartfelt expostulation to her to think what she was about, Ormsby arrived.

  “The wound has gone putrid,” Ormsby announced after a brief examination. “I will not try to hide from you, ma’am, that your brother’s situation is grave. Still, I do not totally despair of his life—” this was said hastily, in apparent response to the expression on Gabby’s face and the muffled sound from Barnet “—if my instructions are followed to the letter. The wound must be soaked every two hours in hot poultices made with this powder I shall leave with you; he must have his medicine without fail; he must be given plenty to drink; and he must be kept warm and still.”

  “I will see to it,” Gabby replied, for the instructions had been addressed to her.

  It was not to be supposed that Ormsby would not bleed Wickham. This he did, to, as he said, release the ill humors in the blood that were doubtless causing the fever. Then the first powder was poured down Wickham’s throat under Ormsby’s supervision; likewise was the bandage changed, and the wound soaked. As this of necessity involved revealing a great deal more of the patient’s flesh than Gabby was comfortable viewing, she retreated to a corner of the room, where she busied herself preparing a flacon of watered wine.