by Ruth Axtell
Despite her teasing tone with him, she did not see him as a man to toy with a lady’s affections. He was much too serious and high-minded. He was also pious. No . . . the more she had thought it over, the more she doubted his attachment to the supposed young lady he was promised to. Had he fabricated the story? Or, was there indeed a young lady, but his affections were not so sure as he believed?
She approached his room, relieved to find the door open. The next second she frowned, hearing feminine giggles. She hastened toward the door, to find a pair of the kitchen maids standing beside his bed.
Pausing at the threshold, she frowned at the sight of them, chatting and laughing with MacKinnon.
They were acting like barmaids. Opening the door wider, Céline marched in. “Goodness, you sound as if you are having a party in here.”
The maids whirled around, looking guilty.
Her annoyance dissolved at the sight of their faces. MacKinnon looked as worried as a boy caught with a forbidden sweetmeat.
The maids curtsied and moved away from the bed. “Beg pardon, my lady . . . we didn’t mean to disturb anyone—” they spoke at the same time.
Céline waved aside their stammering excuses and walked farther into the room. “You needn’t beg my pardon. You must beg Mr. MacKinnon’s if you were tiring him.” She arched a brow at him. “Well, Mr. MacKinnon, must I send these young women about their business, or have I interrupted your fun?”
“No—no—you have interrupted nothing. They have merely been looking in on me—they were only here a few moments.”
She almost laughed at his embarrassment. “You needn’t worry on my account.” She held up the books she carried in her arms. “I brought you the reading material I promised you.”
The maids backed out of the room. “If you’ll excuse us, my lady . . . ring if you need anything, Mr. MacKinnon . . .”
When they’d left, an awkward silence fell. Céline placed the books on the table, glad to see a larger one had replaced the smaller one. She turned back to MacKinnon, a smile in place, to see him watching her. “Good afternoon. How is your shoulder?”
“Better.”
She eyed the bandaging. “Are you taking the laudanum at night or the willow bark?”
“The willow bark. It has helped. I should be able to get up soon.”
“Don’t speak such nonsense. You’ll get up when the good surgeon gives you leave.” Her attention returned to the table. The Bible had been supplemented by another volume. She picked it up and read the title. “Rights of Man?”
“I asked William to bring it from your library. I am merely attempting to understand your Revolution.”
“My Revolution?”
“The French one.”
“Ah.” She didn’t know what to think. Was he truly interested? Or merely trying to incriminate her more? “Then you must also read Voltaire and Rousseau. Have you done so?”
“No. I haven’t had much opportunity to read in recent years.” He added, “I read most during my years aboard ship, but it was not always easy to obtain books.”
She nodded. “Well, I have brought you some lighter fare.” She read the titles as she set the other books atop the ones on his table. “Pride and Prejudice—that just came out a few months ago, I’m sure you shall enjoy it—The Absentee, and The Lady of the Lake for some poetry. There, perhaps those will amuse you.” So you needn’t depend on the housemaids.
“Thank you, my lady, but it was really not necessary.”
“Do you never read novels?”
“I am not in the habit of doing so.”
“Well, you have really missed out on some wonderful stories. Here, let me introduce you.” On the spur of the moment, she picked up one of the books and seated herself on the chair, opening the book on her lap.
“My lady, I beg of you, it’s—”
She looked up from the book. “Yes?”
He worried the blanket between his fingers. “It’s not proper.”
She raised her eyebrows, pretending ignorance. “Whatever do you mean?”
He waved a hand in a gesture of helplessness. “You—here—in my chamber—”
She was touched by his sense of propriety. It only confirmed her good opinion of him. She widened her eyes and then smiled. “You mean because you are a man and I am a woman?”
“A lady.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you, sir. So, you think it not proper for the mistress of the house to look in on the man in her employ who took a bullet to defend her and almost lost his life in the process?” She flattened the pages of the book, preparing to read. “Fie on those who judge it improper of me to sit by your bedside and read a little to distract you from the pain I have no doubt you are in.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
She waved her hand toward the door. “You see the door is fully open. Anyone can enter at any moment. I see no impropriety.” Before her butler could object any further, she began to read the opening chapter of The Absentee.
About an hour later, when Lady Wexham left his room, Rees didn’t know whether to be comforted, amused, or insulted by her ladyship’s strange behavior. Clearly, he was so beneath her notice as a man that she saw nothing inappropriate in sitting alone in his bedchamber reading to him.
He had to admit, he had found the reading material interesting. Her voice was clear and melodious, assuming amusing accents when reading the dialogue.
How he wished he could disdain her, keep her at arm’s length. She was a traitor! His indignation disappeared as his gaze landed on the books on his table. Paine’s Rights of Man was indeed giving him insight into the thought behind the revolutionaries.
Lady Wexham had promised to bring him the works of the great French thinkers of the past century. Despite his resistance, he found himself wanting to know her mind better and looked forward to reading what she brought him. If Lady Wexham was indeed a Jacobin, as he began to suspect more and more, he wanted to know her arguments.
Yet, with all the pleasure he had experienced in the past hour, he could not forget his fear and worry for her.
Whoever had attacked the coach and searched her person was not going to give up.
How could he protect her when he was lying in bed like an invalid?
Dear Lord, You sent me here for a purpose. Please help me to get up soon so I may be of use to Lady Wexham. Please keep her and those around her safe. Confound those who mean her harm.
When had Lady Wexham’s safety and well-being become his number one objective—above his duty to his country?
18
Céline left MacKinnon’s room and headed up the service stairs back to the main floor.
“With the butler again?”
Her sister-in-law stood at the top of the stairs, removing her gloves finger by finger. Agatha had only just arrived the previous afternoon and was already making her presence felt.
Ignoring her remark, Céline paused on the step. “I trust you had a pleasant round of morning calls.”
“Yes.” She began on the next glove. “Until I came back and heard that you were once again by your butler’s bedside. It’s indecent.”
Céline struggled to keep her anger in check. “Listening to your abigail’s tales?”
“If my abigail tells me such things, it is because they are all talking of it below stairs.”
Céline moved past her, her mind considering what she must do about the servants. Have a talk with Mrs. Finlay or ignore their gossip? Saying anything would only aggravate matters. Servants would always gossip about their employers, but Céline was shaken with how quickly her visits to MacKinnon had become fodder for them.
Agatha moved out of her way but followed her as Céline made her way to the sitting room. “You are behaving in a manner unbefitting an earl’s wife.”
Céline said nothing until she had entered the room and shut the door behind them. She looked steadily at her sister-in-law, her tone calm. “Would you care to enlighten
me as to what you mean?”
Agatha’s gray-blue eyes so like the late earl’s pierced her. “A lady of the house does not sit reading to her butler. It’s disgraceful.”
Céline struggled to keep her voice steady. “Mr. MacKinnon saved my life. I am merely doing what any human being would do to look after someone in her charge, and to whom she owes a great debt.” She picked up her sewing basket and settled in a chair. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to do.” Her fingers shook as she took the needle from her embroidery hoop.
“Someday you’ll go too far!”
Céline stopped, her needle half in the linen. “I beg your pardon?”
An ugly flush colored Agatha’s sallow cheeks. She lifted her chin. “I don’t need to explain anything to you.”
Feeling a desire to jab the thick needle at her sister-in-law, Céline poked it instead into the linen and took a deep breath. “Nor I to you.”
The two stared at one another for a long moment. Finally, Agatha’s lips stretched in a semblance of a smile. “As you wish.”
The next moment her soft footfalls on the carpet and click of the door told Céline she was gone. The colorful embroidery threads swam before Céline’s eyes. Agatha’s words, no matter how mean-spirited, had shaken her. These past days she had been living for that scant hour of sitting beside MacKinnon’s bedside, as if she were his nurse—or his wife—forgetting all that was around them.
Her embroidery hoop fell on her lap forgotten, as she allowed herself to wonder for a few moments at the feeling of companionableness and comfort she derived from sitting by MacKinnon’s bedside, conversing and reading.
If she had met him in a drawing room, would she have given him a second look? Would he have noticed her? Would they have allowed themselves to get to know each other better, as she longed to do now?
Was it only some silly notion that he was beyond her reach that drew her?
She shook her head, bringing her hands to her temples, as if such movements could contain her thoughts.
It was time to wake from that illusion and face reality. Too much was at stake for her to pretend that things could be otherwise.
She sighed, setting aside the embroidery. She must see Roland.
Her sister-in-law would like nothing better than to discredit her and see her lose her place in society. Jealousy at the fortune the earl had left Céline was eating away at her. It mattered little how generous Céline had been to her.
If Agatha only knew how much more serious things were than merely carrying on with a servant. Too restless to sew, Céline rose and went to her desk. She eyed the pile of unanswered correspondence, bills, and invitations.
Since arriving home with the wounded MacKinnon, she had had no time or desire to attend to her mail, much less go out in society. The fewer people who knew she was back in London, the better.
She should be more concerned with her safety—and those of her compatriots—instead of going about like some debutante in the throes of calf-love.
She had known that kind of love once. Then she had been naive and innocent. Now she had no such defense.
She needed to make plans . . . plans if things should unravel quickly. She had not heard from Roland since getting the dispatches to him.
The watch called out the hour, half past two, then his voice receded as he made his way down the block. Rees stared at the dark ceiling, his concern growing with each passing day that he lay abed, not just over Lady Wexham’s safety but about his own duty. It was now three days since he’d been shot, but he knew he could delay informing Bunting no longer. His legs felt shaky when he attempted standing. Gritting his teeth and ignoring the pull to his shoulder, he bent to put on a pair of breeches.
He had to stop and gulp some air until the wave of weakness passed before attempting the shirt. Gingerly, he lifted his arms to draw it over his head, praying the wound would not reopen. Imagining Lady Wexham’s scolding, he couldn’t help smiling. The smile vanished almost instantly as he remembered why he was risking such a thing.
He’d decided late that afternoon that he must go to Bunting’s lodgings. It would mean a fair walk, but he saw no other recourse. He doubted he’d find a hackney at this hour.
Rees buttoned his coat as he considered what he would tell his contact. The attack on the coach and his own injury, obviously. But the masquerade and the man who had been shadowing Lady Wexham at Hartwell House? Whatever he divulged would immediately implicate Lady Wexham.
Dear Lord, he prayed as he’d been praying every day, direct my words.
He’d overestimated his strength. By the time he arrived at the end of the block, Rees was ready to collapse. Thankfully, there was a hackney stand at the next corner with one lone carriage and a driver slumped over in sleep.
Exhausted, holding his elbow to lessen the pressure on his shoulder, Rees arrived at the door of Bunting’s address, a narrow house near the waterfront. It took some minutes and several knocks with the head of his walking stick before Bunting appeared. His nightcap askew, a dark dressing gown clutched over his nightshirt with one hand, Bunting widened his eyes at the sight of Rees. The next moment, he beckoned him in, closing the door quickly behind him.
“Good gracious, man, you look half dead. I’ve had someone posted outside Lady Wexham’s house the last few days and heard you were wounded, but it was too chancy to get someone into the house to see you.” As he spoke, he ushered Rees into the dark sitting room and began lighting a candle. “Sit down before you fall down. Are you sure you should be up?”
Rees collapsed into the wing chair, cradling his arm to ease the impact.
Bunting brought him a tumbler and stood over him as he swallowed the brandy, as if to make sure Rees drank it all down. “You look as pale as if they’d fished you out of the Thames after a week.”
Feeling somewhat revived, Rees told Bunting, whose keen eyes never left his face, how he’d kept an eye on Lady Wexham as much as he’d been able, hampered by all the people surrounding her at Hartwell. He added that much of his evenings had been spent looking after Madame de Beaumont at her daughter’s request.
“The whole place seems to be a mass of intrigue,” he ended. “I spotted someone following Lady Wexham a few times, but it could have been for jealousy as much as anything else,” he suggested. “She seemed to be a favorite of the Comte’s, and of course, they are jockeying for position around him and his nephew, the Duc d’Angoulême.”
Bunting nodded. “What else did you notice?”
“They are all waiting for Louis to be able to return to France and be crowned king.” Rees paused.
Bunting scratched his unshaven chin, his eyes narrowed in consideration. “What about the gunshot?”
Rees breathed in, praying for the right words—how to be truthful, yet implicate Lady Wexham as little as possible.
“We were attacked by highwaymen around Bushey Heath. There were five of them, too many to outrun. They shot at us when I shouted to the coachman to go on. I was hit in the shoulder.” He attempted a shrug then winced at the pain. “It didn’t hit anything vital. The coachman was forced to stop. The brigands searched the carriage.” His jaw hardened, remembering that they had searched Lady Wexham herself.
“What did they take?”
“Nothing that I know of. Lady Wexham wasn’t carrying anything of value.” At the man’s raised eyebrow, he explained. “She had left a day or so ahead of her servants. The rest of her luggage was coming with her maid.”
Bunting continued rubbing his chin. “Why did she travel on ahead?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps she had an engagement in London she needed to return for.” Would Bunting buy that?
Bunting shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t make sense. Ladies don’t travel without their maids or an entourage.” He eyed Rees. “Tell me more about these highwaymen. What time of day was it?”
“Around three o’clock.”
“In the afternoon? That’s unusual in our times, to attack in b
road daylight. And you say they found nothing of value on Lady Wexham?”
“No.” Rees shifted, his shoulder beginning to throb, knowing he’d better confess the next thing before it became obvious he was withholding information. “They were speaking in French.”
The man looked down at him a long moment. His features flickered in the candlelight, making him look like a ghoulish specter who could see into his very soul. “From Hartwell?”
“Possibly.”
“Did you recognize any?”
“They were masked. There were so many servants—more on account of all the guests at the ball.”
Bunting cocked a gray eyebrow. “The ball?”
Rees nodded slowly. “A masked ball, the night before we returned to London.”
“How many guests would you say?”
“At least a hundred, possibly more.”
“Anything out of the ordinary happen?”
He swallowed, fighting to keep his gaze steady. “Nothing extraordinary that I could see. Crowds milling about in disguise. It was difficult to distinguish who was who. The usual mischief people get up to at such events.”
Rees hardly dared breathe as he watched Bunting’s reaction. “Yes . . .” he murmured, considering. Then as if coming to a conclusion, Bunting shook himself and focused on Rees once more. “You look ready to collapse. You’d best get yourself home and into bed.”
“Yes.” Grateful that the ordeal was over, Rees pushed himself off the chair, feeling light-headed for a few seconds. The sudden movement brought a sensation of moisture against the bandages.
“Here, take another drink if you want to make it back.” Bunting splashed another finger of brandy into his glass.
Rees tipped his head back, downing the remainder. It helped clear his head and warmed his insides as he went back out into the cool night.
By the time he returned home, the bandaging was soaked. He kept a handkerchief pressed against it under his coat during the ride back to keep it from seeping into his shirt, but that, too, was beginning to feel wet beneath his fingertips when he alighted from the hackney.
