Jane’s brows furrowed. His eyes were glazed, she saw, and his normally jovial behavior was turning sullen as he regarded her. He blew up a house? “Why, where was the house?” she wondered lightly, hoping she could keep him talking. Although his clothes were recently brushed and cleaned, he smelled as if he’d been on a horse. For a very long time.
The big man puffed out his chest. “Down in Kirdford,” he replied proudly.
“Really? All the way down there?” she responded, raising her voice in the hopes that one of the other employees might hear her. “I do hope this … Mr. Bingham … payed you well,” she added, finally looking at the purse he held in one hand. Oh, God! Garrett was somewhere near Kirdford. What else did he say about Bingham? Bingham wanted his cousin dead. Whoever that was.
McFarland stood up straighter. “Isna’ my money good enough for ye?” he wondered then, a look of offense replacing his questioning look.
Alarmed at what she was imagining, Jane took a step back, her foot hitting the bottom step and essentially stopping her retreat. “Mr. McFarland! You are being impertinent!” she announced loudly. “I am not … available in that way,” she stated, raising her voice to sound as stern as she could make it. “That’s why we have Rosy and Violet,” she stated in a conciliatory tone, referring to the lightskirts that plied their trade on the third floor of the establishment. She turned on her heel, held up her skirts, and quickly made her way up the stairs, the sudden sense of fear gripping her. When McFarland’s arm wrapped about her waist and lifted her from the stairs, though, she let out a scream and began kicking. McFarland seemed unsteady on the steps; perhaps her kicks would force him to release her. A hand came over her mouth when she started to scream again, though, and when she grabbed at it with her free hands, a searing pain shot through her cheek. Gray enveloped her vision before the sensation of falling replaced every other sense, and then everything went black.
Chapter 11
Lady Charlotte and the Doctor
“That was the last stitch, I promise,” Dr. Regan murmured as he ended the row of tiny stitches across Lady Charlotte’s back.
Thirty-three, she thought, feeling a bit mortified. “May I see in a looking glass?” she asked, knowing that if she did not at least look now, her imagination would make up ghastly images that might be far worse than the reality.
Dr. Regan reached over to the vanity and picked up a hand mirror. “Of course, my lady,” he intoned as he gave her the looking glass. Charlotte turned her back so it faced the vanity mirror and then held the looking glass in front of her. Visibly wincing at the sight, Charlotte had to take a breath and close her eyes for a moment.
“It looks worse than it is, I assure you,” the doctor said in a quiet voice. “Yes, it will be red for some time, and then it will be white, and all those stitch marks will become tiny white dots, but it will be far better than the raised welt you would have had,” he explained gently.
A tear slid down Charlotte’s face. “Thank you for not saying anything to His Grace,” she said in small voice as she forced a wan smile. “And thank you for … the stitches. I expect this is far better than it could have been,” she added, trying to seem as gracious as she should. “And thank you, too, for all you did for His Grace after the fire,” she said, finally making eye contact with him. “The doctor in London said His Grace would not have survived had you not done exactly what you did those first few days.” Charlotte still hoped Dr. Regan held no ill will toward her.
She had been headstrong that first day she’d arrived to arrange Joshua’s transportation to London, determined to get him into a more modern facility than the country doctor’s village clinic or the meager hospital in Petworth. How was she to know that William Regan was so experienced with burn patients, him having served first as an army doctor and then as a doctor for the nearby miners who suffered all sorts of maladies as a result of their labors? “I wish to apologize for my behavior. It was rude of me to treat you as I did.”
Dr. Regan regarded his patient with a wistful smile. “My lady, you have no need to apologize for loving a man so much you would do anything to see him survive,” he countered, his bony shoulder shrugging as he made the comment. He pulled a roll of white linen from his bag along with a length of lint.
Charlotte stared at the doctor, shocked to hear his frank comments spoken aloud. “How … how did you know?” she asked in a whisper, hoping there weren’t any maids within earshot.
One of the doctor’s bushy eyebrows cocked up nearly into his thinning hairline. “I have never known a lady of the aristocracy to exhibit so much concern for a horribly disfigured man as you did,” he stated quietly as he covered her stitches with the lint. “Wainwright’s mother might have, perhaps. She was a good woman. A good duchess. But there were those that thought I should allow Wainwright to die … so that he might be released from the pain he had to endure.” He said the last words in a quiet whisper, as if he was sharing a secret he hadn’t shared with anyone else.
“No!” Charlotte spoke in horror, a tooth catching her lower lip.
“I took an oath,” Dr. Regan said then. “And I kept it. But had you not been there, I might have allowed His Grace to pass on out a sense of … pity. He was in a good deal of pain. I hate to admit it, but I truly thought he would die. And, since there were no survivors, not even any Wainwright nephews to inherit, our duchy would have become extinct and the lands returned to the Crown.” He started to wrap the linen bandage under her arm and around to her front and then stopped when he realized it would need to go under and over her breasts. Charlotte took the roll from him and sighed, doing the honors herself. Since she wouldn’t be wearing a corset anytime soon, the bandage could at least act in part of the capacity. Between the two of them, they continued wrapping the linen bandage around her torso several times to cover the lint until he tied the ends together.
Charlotte considered the doctor’s words as they worked in silence. So, the Wainwright line did end with Joshua Wainwright. How many were aware of the tenuous hold he now had on Chichester? Joshua would have to sire heirs to ensure the duchy would continue. He had to know that. Had to know that he should accept Charlotte as his betrothed and marry her – the sooner, the better.
She stared at herself in the mirror and considered her options should he decide not to accept her. She had none, really. If Joshua Wainwright did not take her as his wife, she really had no place to go. Unless …
“Can he father a child?” Charlotte asked in a voice so small the doctor had to lean in to hear her.
Both his eyebrows cocked up, and Charlotte was sure the man blushed. “Pardon my surprise, but I assumed that you two had already … consummated your … betrothal,” he stammered. Seeing Charlotte’s shocked expression and remembering the condition of her back, he added, “I beg your pardon, Lady Charlotte. When I arrived, you two seemed …” He straightened, trying to regain a bit of control over his features. “I believe he can,” he struggled to get out, embarrassed at his assumption. “He was not injured … there,” he added with a quick shake of his head.
One of Charlotte’s eyebrows arched elegantly as a grin lit up her face. “If His Grace decides we should be married, then you shall be the first person I invite to the wedding ceremony,” she said with a nod. “And I expect you to be my doctor when it’s time to deliver his heirs,” she added, her grin changing into a smile of embarrassment.
Dr. Regan’s look of shock changed to relief. After another moment, he smiled. “I shall be honored to attend you, my lady.” With that, he took up his black bag, gave her a quick bow, and exited the bedchamber.
Once he was gone, Parma hurried to join her. “My lady, are you … well?” she asked in almost a whisper, her face going from the linen bandage to Charlotte’s reflection in the mirror.
“I am,” she replied quietly. I have to be. “I have responsibilities to see to for the rest of my stay here at Wisborough Oaks,” she announced then, her face brightening. “I’m t
hinking the sprigged muslin day gown. And let’s do something different with my hair. Nothing elaborate, though. I don’t wish to keep the duke waiting,” she added as she saw Parma’s surprised expression in the mirror. Something to do.
She truly was looking forward to it.
Chapter 12
A Conversation at White’s
The Duke of Chichester’s coach pulled up to White’s at precisely seven o’clock. Garrett McElliott, nattily dressed in a manner to which he had become accustomed, although not necessarily comfortable, stepped down and glanced to his left and right. A footman had promptly opened the door and put down the step, another opened the door to the men’s club and yet another saw to his top hat and great coat. Dressed more formally than usual, Garrett felt it best to look as if was going to attend the theatre or a soirée when he asked the questions he was about to of the patrons he found inside. Several bade him greetings, a few merely nodded and some ignored him completely. He wasn’t a titled gentleman, after all.
“McElliott, where the hell have you been?” an older gentleman called out, hurrying to shake hands with him.
“Lord Torrington?” Garrett said in shock, noting the elder’s surprising youthful exuberance and rather fashionable clothing. Looks like he’s hired Weston to do his tailoring! “My God, what have you done? You look as if you have grown younger by ten years!” And Wainwright wasn’t kidding when he said Grandby was here every night.
The Earl of Torrington slapped Garrett on the back. “It’s ‘Grandby’, and so good of you to say so,” he replied. Despite holding a title since his early twenties, Milton Grandby found he detested ‘Torrington’ as a moniker and insisted his friends call him ‘Grandby’. He motioned to a butler. “Whiskey, please,” he called out. Returning his attention to Garrett, Grandby smiled. “And how is Wainwright? Truly?” he whispered, moving them to a table far away from the card players and the patrons studying the betting book.
Garrett wondered at the earl’s interest but decided he could trust the man. Milton Grandby had been supportive of the duke’s retention of Chichester when some thought the duchy should be transferred to the Crown after the fire left everyone dead but Joshua. “He’s quite well, working far too hard on the books and …” He paused, not quite sure if he should mention the betrothal just yet.
Grandby raised an eyebrow. “Considering matrimony?” he suggested, a hint of mischief in his eyes. The butler delivered their drinks to the small table that separated their chairs, and Grandby reached over for his.
Garrett stared at the earl. “What do you know?” he asked, a look of concern replacing the one of humor on his face.
The earl regarded him for a moment and finally leaned forward. “Well, after that damned Bingham went into a coma last week, it’s been suggested that Lady Charlotte has gone off to marry her duke before she’ll have to go into mourning. She didn’t attend Lady Worthington’s musicale last night, and everyone knows Charlotte Bingham attends all the best soirées,” he said before taking sip of his drink.
Schooling his features so as not to show his shock at the news of Bingham being in a coma, Garrett cocked his head to one side. “So, you know this because ..?” he let the question hang, wondering how the earl could find out so quickly that Charlotte Bingham wasn’t in attendance at her favorite hostess’ musicale.
“I was the host,” Grandby replied proudly, sitting up straighter. His chest was practically puffed out as he made the announcement. He didn’t bother to add that it was his equipage that took Charlotte Bingham and her maid to Wisborough Oaks.
Garrett allowed a huge grin. “You and Lady Worthington?” he whispered, a bit shocked at the implication. “Is there matrimony in your future, perhaps?” he asked then, realizing why it might be that the earl seemed so much younger than usual.
The man excelled at choosing a different widow each Season with whom to attend all the best society events, but he never seemed to feel enough affection for any one of them to make her his wife. Lady Worthington certainly had wealth, her husband having built a fortune from building the early steam ships, and, in her late thirties, she was younger and certainly more beautiful than most widows of the ton.
The earl grinned. “I do believe I shall be visiting Ludgate Hill this very week,” he admitted sheepishly. “And you’re not to tell a single soul. Except maybe that damned Wainwright. Might get him to the altar a bit quicker. Where is he, by the way?” he asked, glancing around the room before draining his glass.
Garrett took a drink, relishing the warm smoky flavor before allowing the amber liquid fire to slide down his throat. “He’s back at Wisborough Oaks. The reconstruction on the exterior is complete, and he’s overseeing the interior work now,” he explained, hoping he wouldn’t be caught in the white lie. “The place should be back to normal before the year is out.”
Grandby seemed impressed as he nodded. “Is he really … recovered?” he asked quietly. “I ask only because … well, Bingham was in here a month ago hinting that he might be open to other suitors for his daughter. Claimed Wainwright would never recover from his burns, and he didn’t want his only daughter forced to marry an abomination.”
Wincing at the comment, Garrett swallowed. “Did anyone take him up on his … offer? I can’t imagine someone agreeing to marry Lady Charlotte when her betrothal to a duke has been public knowledge her whole life,” he reasoned, hoping others would see it that way. “Although I suppose there’s a substantial dowry associated with the chit.” Of all the men he could possibly ask about Bingham, Grandby was turning out to be a wealth of information. Garret still had to find out more about her father’s situation, though.
His eyes widening, Grandby nodded his head. “Ten thousand pounds is a bit of an inducement for any man, to be sure, but I heard Bingham was negotiating with a viscount or an earl or some such. I don’t know who, though. Someone who needed an heir, as I recall.”
“And, I suppose the negotiations ended when Bingham went into hospital?” Garrett hinted, hoping to draw out more information from the earl.
“I’ve no idea,” Grandby replied, shaking his head and dashing Garrett’s hopes of learning more on that subject. Grandby held out his empty glass for the butler. “Another please, for me and another for Mr. McElliott,” he instructed as the manservant took the glass and bowed.
“Bingham took a header in his study. It was ruled an accident by Bow Street,” Grandby stated quietly. “Apparently he was quite foxed, tripped and hit his head on the edge of his desk. Lady Bingham and Lady Charlotte had just returned from a musicale when it happened.”
Garrett considered the explanation. It certainly sounded plausible. “Did a servant find him? Or did one of the women?” he wondered. A cold feeling suddenly grew in the pit of his stomach as his mind raced to fill in the gaps.
“Oh, there were no servants in the house at the time. They claimed Bingham told them all to take the evening off, what with the ladies gone and all, so his poor wife found him.”
Garrett tried covering his reaction with the back of his hand over his lower face, but he knew his own aversion to finding someone apparently dead was clearly etched on it.
The butler returned with their drinks and set them on the table. Garrett finished his first one in a single gulp and gave the empty glass to the man. “Thank you,” he said as he nodded to the butler. “The Countess Ellsworth had to be quite … upset,” he commented, returning his attention to Grandby. “And now she’ll be at his bedside, no doubt,” he added wistfully, hoping the earl would confirm his supposition.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Grandby accused suddenly, one bushy eyebrow arcing in an annoyance.
Garrett’s own brows furrowed. “I beg pardon,” he replied before suddenly remembering Grandby’s earlier question about Wainwright. “You asked about Joshua, of course,” he said as he held up a finger. “As I said, he is quite fine and probably doing too much, what with all the reconstruction and dealing with the village an
d tenants and what-not, but he’s learned a good deal about running a duchy, has learned all the accounting, and will probably have the books caught up by the end of the month. I expect he’ll attend the next session of Parliament, in fact. He’ll make a fine duke. Truly.”
Grandby took a drink and regarded the younger man. “And what about an heir? Succession requires there be an heir. I spoke on his behalf with assurances the line wouldn’t die with him. But, I must admit, I had my doubts that a woman would be willing to marry a man so disfigured as he must be. Unless she is blind …”
“Or in love.”
“Or Lady Charlotte.” Grandby stated, daring Garrett to counter the claim.
“Wainwright is betrothed and will marry the woman promised to the dukedom,” Garrett returned quickly, nearly interrupting the earl and then rolling his eyes as he realized his gaffe.
Grandby’s expression spoke volumes. He leaned forward again. “So, Lady Charlotte will marry her duke after all?” he asked rhetorically, obviously relishing the idea. His face split into a huge grin, but it wasn’t obvious just why the man seemed so happy. Did he want Lady Charlotte to end up with the new duke? Or did he think it some colossal joke that the duke would end up with the chit?
Garrett thinned his lips and then leaned in so that his mouth was very close to Grandby’s ear. “She was quite instrumental in seeing to his care, and she is even more determined to fulfill her obligation to the duchy.” He straightened and regarded the earl, an eyebrow lifting as if he’d just imparted the most crucial of state secrets.
“She’s quite precious to me, McElliott,” Grandby replied in a low voice. “Despite her legendary willfulness, she understands the importance of duty and obligation. If that damned John the Second was still alive, I’d probably kill the prick myself so she wouldn’t have to marry him,” he vowed, his voice still low and taking on undertones that warned Garrett of danger ahead. “He had no honor and every intention of draining the duchy of all its assets so that he might dip his prick into every Cyprian in the theatre district and drink himself to excess while he was at it.”
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