The Wicked Waif

by Lancaster, Mary

“You all know I’m perfectly fine?” Dove said. “Lampton, you should take Tillie home, and Grantham, you and Blackshaw leave me with Cully and bu—” He broke off with a quick, apologetic glance at Tillie. “And go away,” he finished.

  “Yes, sir,” Blackshaw said insolently. “In a little.”

  After a long, winding walk up staircases and along various passages, Grantham threw open a door at the end of a corridor and led the way in.

  “Please, come in,” Dove said sarcastically.

  A soldier was pacing up and down within a slightly tatty siting room. With an exclamation, he came straight toward them. “Sir! Where the devil have you been?”

  “Getting shot,” Dove said. “Sorry, Cully. This is Dr. Lampton. And you may remember Miss Tillie from the sea.”

  Distracted, the man’s worried gaze shifted to her. “God bless my soul.”

  “I certainly do,” Tillie said. “I haven’t been able to thank you in person for what you did, but know that I am extremely grateful.”

  “Happy to help, miss,” Cully muttered, blushing. He turned to Dove almost with relief. “I’ll help you into bed, sir.”

  “No, you won’t,” Dove said irritably. “I’m not going to bed.”

  “Yes, you are,” Lampton interjected.

  Cully peered at him, then shrugged and took Dove’s arm. “Come on, sir. Captain, will you report him sick?”

  “I will,” Grantham said. “If you need anything, come directly to me.” He nodded to Tillie and ushered Blackshaw out in front of him.

  From the bedchamber came no noise, as if Dove had given in, which was somehow more frightening than having to fight with him to make him rest.

  “How bad is it?” she asked Dr. Lampton anxiously.

  “As wounds go, it’s not too serious. If it’s kept clean and there is no fever.”

  “But for him?” Tillie pressed. “With his old wound?”

  “I don’t know,” Lampton said. “I have not examined him or even talked to him on the subject.”

  Tillie held his gaze, silently pleading.

  Muttering something, Lampton snatched up his bag and strode into the bedchamber.

  A moment later, Cully came out and picked up the large washing jug. “Been sent for hot water, miss. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you,” Tillie said politely. “I will.”

  When Cully had gone, she took off her cloak and lowered it slowly to a chair while she stared at the closed door to the bedchamber. She could hear their voices, but not what they were saying. And she had the feeling neither of them would tell her. Yet, she had to know. For Dove’s sake.

  Although eavesdropping went against the grain, she refused to apologize, even to herself, as she walked across the room and stood in front of the bedchamber door, leaning closer.

  Dr. Lampton’s voice was saying, “…bit more comfortable. I’ll leave you some laudanum for the pain.”

  “I won’t take it, Lampton,” Dove said. “They dosed me with so much of that damned stuff at one time, I couldn’t think. And then it hurt when I stopped.”

  “This was when you were injured before? When you came home from the Peninsula?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see?” Lampton asked with surprising civility.

  There was a pause. “I’d rather not. The wound was so poked and prodded for months, I’m weary of it.”

  Dove, you idiot, she thought in frustration.

  “Very well, I shan’t touch it, but I would like to see the scar.”

  “It’s healed,” Dove said impatiently. “And quite clean.”

  “Yes,” Lampton agreed after a moment, when clearly, he looked at the wound. “It is. Does it hurt, still? Internally?”

  “Not now,” Dove answered after a moment. “Or at least, only when I exert myself.”

  “Like rescuing men from shipwreck and riding to Manchester and back?” Lampton said wryly.

  “That kind of thing. I scarcely feel it now.”

  “Does eating give you problems?” the doctor asked.

  “Not anymore. In the beginning…I couldn’t. I lived on water and thin gruel. Now it doesn’t even hurt.”

  “How long did they give you?” Lampton asked casually.

  There was silence. “Have you been speaking to my brother?” Dove asked.

  “About this? No. Answer the question.”

  “Hours, days, weeks. At the last examination, six months. That’s when I returned to the regiment to duties here.”

  “That was nearly two years ago.” After another short silence, Lampton said, “I won’t examine it. Despite the outrageous number of gunshot wounds I’ve had to deal with since coming to Blackhaven, I am not an expert in such injuries. However, I do know another physician who is.”

  “I’ve seen quite enough of Dr. Morton, thank you, excellent as he is!”

  “Not Dr. Morton. He’s a very different man, spends most of his life at sea. With your permission, I’d like to arrange for him to—”

  “No,” Dove interrupted. “I don’t want any more damned doctors. With respect.”

  “Doverton. You have a lot to look forward to. Don’t you owe this to her as well as yourself?”

  There was a pregnant pause. The outer door snapped open, making her jump. As Cully strode in, she hurried guiltily across the room, wishing he’d stayed away just thirty seconds longer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “He is not a weak man,” Dr. Lampton said abruptly. “At the moment, I see no reason why this new wound should kill him.”

  Tillie sat down in sheer relief.

  “Come, now, come back to the vicarage with me,” Lampton said.

  She shook her head. “I’ll stay with him, but if you could let Mrs. Grant know, I would be grateful.”

  This did not please the doctor, but Tillie was adamant. When she had finally persuaded him to leave without her, Tillie returned to the bedchamber door and knocked.

  “Come in, damn it, Cully,” Dove said irritably.

  Tillie entered to see him propped up in bed against many pillows. “I’m not Cully,” she apologized. “He’s gone to fetch you some breakfast.”

  Dove almost goggled at her. “Good God, Tillie, you can’t be here!”

  Deliberately, she pinched the skin of her wrist. “Yes. Apparently, I can.”

  Dove scowled. “You know what I mean and why.”

  Why he would bother with the reputation of his proposed mistress was something of a mystery to her, so she ignored his comment, merely sitting on the edge of the bed. “I want you to know that it was I who told Dr. Lampton about the severity of your old wound. I want him to give you his opinion and his treatment.”

  His eyes narrowed. But he deliberately veiled his feelings, giving her no clue. “Why?”

  “Because I want you to live!” she whispered.

  A hint of pity spilled from his eyes. He reached out and took her hand. “I don’t think any of us, even Lampton, have much say in that, Tillie. I would not build your hopes or mine only to have them come crashing down. I’ve learned to live with this knowledge, to live for every day I have.”

  Tillie held his gaze, understanding and yet refusing to give in. “If people weren’t waiting for you to die any day,” she said, with deliberate brutality, “they would not keep fussing about you every time you stay up late or ride a horse. Personally, I cannot see that you have anything to lose.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Did I tell you that you were a minx?”

  “Think about it,” she said. He kissed her hand, and she rose from the bed. “While you sleep.”

  *

  For most of the day, Tillie and Cully took it in turns to stay with Dove. He slept quite a lot and ate, then slept again. Secretly, Tilly loved the intimacy of watching him sleep, especially since he did not appear to be disturbed by pain or fever. Instead, he looked peaceful, almost boyish. Almost. But Tillie was too aware of the manly body beneath the covers, distracting her from inevitable anxiety.<
br />
  Otherwise, she occupied herself in examining the books on his shelf—an eclectic mixture of military treatises, history, and science, with a few novels thrown in. She spotted Colonel Benedict’s botanical book and drew it off the shelf to read.

  In the late afternoon, Dr. Lampton returned with Kate Grant. While the doctor changed Dove’s dressing, Kate told her she had to come back with her.

  “You are neither his family nor his wife,” she said firmly. “In the eyes of the world, you should not be here, and your reputation will suffer should this get out. Besides, Cully is more than capable of looking after him,”

  “I am, miss,” Cully agreed. “And what Mrs. Grant says is true. It ain’t right for you to stay tonight. In fact, he don’t know you’re still here now and will whip me when he finds out.”

  “No he won’t!” Tillie said, shocked.

  “No, he won’t,” Cully agreed. “But he won’t be pleased. Come and visit tomorrow with Mrs. Grant! Though chances are, he’ll be right as rain by then.”

  *

  The following morning, Dove awoke feeling well but restless. Dr. Lampton pronounced himself pleased with the wound, which was healing with unusual rapidity, thanks, Dove suspected, to the vile-looking ointment the doctor had slathered on it before bandaging it.

  “You should do,” Lampton said. “So long as you commit no further folly to aggravate it. Cully tells me you are on leave of absence for another couple of days, so make the most of them and rest.”

  “I’ll try,” Dove said placatingly, although Lampton had found him beginning to climb into his clothes.

  Lampton grunted, but helped him back into his shirt before he stood to go. But inevitably, word of Dove’s duel had got out, and Dr. Morton chose that moment to visit. He frowned at the sight of Lampton who said without embarrassment, “Forgive me trampling on your toes, sir. I happened to be there, and so I am following my handiwork. But I shan’t poach your patient.”

  Morton’s brow relaxed. “I’m sure we need not worry about such things. On the other hand, Dove, I have just met Mr. and Mrs. Doverton, who are now in your sitting room.”

  “Oh, damn, do they know?”

  “About the duel? Of course. This is Blackhaven.”

  “Bear up, my friend,” Lampton said wryly. “You’ve suffered worse. Good morning, gentlemen. I’ll find my own way out.”

  “Anyone would think he was pleased,” Dove observed, allowing Cully to help him into his coat.

  “Like me,” Morton said with dignity, “he disapproves of duels.”

  “Well, I tend to agree. Waste of good powder.” His coat fastened, Dove took a deep breath and strolled into the sitting room. “Good morning,” he said. “You did not need to come here, you know, I was going to call on you later.”

  “Is it true?” John demanded. “Were you dueling?”

  “Well, I tried, but truth be told, I doubt anyone would grace that debacle by such a term.”

  Frowning, Ellen stepped out from behind John. “Then you were not shot?” she asked hopefully.

  It was tempting, but he could not bring himself to lie. “It’s only a scratch.”

  “Then what was Dr. Lampton and Dr, Morton doing here?” John demanded.

  “Making sure it became no more than a scratch,” Morton said jovially. “The wound is already healing, and he’ll be right as rain in no time. If you’ll excuse me, I have other duties.”

  At least Ellen waited until he departed before she burst out, “But Dominic, this was so foolish of you! Is it true you fought some tradesman? That girl’s husband?”

  “Goof grief, Ellen, I can’t discuss such matters with you,” Dove said firmly. “Though I will say, if you are referring to Miss Dawlish, she is not married.”

  Ellen, clearly, had more to say, but for once, John interrupted her. “Come back with us to the hotel and we’ll have a pleasant, lazy day.”

  “Then give me two minutes.”

  “Can Cully not bring your things over later?” Ellen suggested.

  Dove blinked. “No. I am not staying at the hotel, Ellen. I have perfectly good quarters here.”

  There was silence as he returned to gather his hat and overcoat from the other room. He suspected John had once again obliged Ellen to hold her tongue.

  One of the things he had long ago accepted, along with the knowledge of his own inevitably early death, was that he needed to make it easier for his family. He couldn’t take away their grief, but he could avoid thrusting it under their noses. This was one reason he had insisted on returning to the regiment rather than living quietly with John and Ellen. The other reason, of course, was that he didn’t wish to be constantly reminded of his imminent demise by the watchful, worried faces of his family. Now he had to remind himself of the patience he had promised, and let them fuss even while he laughed at them for it.

  “You never did like to be treated as an invalid, did you?” Felicity said as they sat by the window of John and Ellen’s sitting room. “I remember you escaping your sick room as a boy and everyone out looking for you.”

  Dove laughed. “I only had a cold.”

  “I believe it was influenza!”

  “At any rate, I was better.”

  Felicity smiled. “Life was simpler then, wasn’t it? Do you never wish you could go back?”

  Dove thought about it. “No. Do you?”

  “To childhood, sometimes. And to other periods in my life when I believe I would do things differently.”

  “Such as what?” Dove asked. He wasn’t paying a great deal of attention, for he had just glimpsed Tillie hurrying along the street below with Catherine Gaunt and Ash. His heart gave its usual leap, eagerly hoping she was coming here.

  “Breaking off our engagement.”

  That got his attention. He stared at her.

  She gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that, but I wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you,” he managed, pulling himself together. “It’s all water under the bridge now.”

  He was relieved when John interrupted their tete a tete. But when he glanced down at the street once more, he saw Tillie and Catherine turning the corner toward the vicarage. Lord Sylvester had joined them. And only Ash visited the sitting room.

  “You can’t stay out of trouble, can you?” Ash said, his anxious gaze belying his casual tone. “Glad to see you looking so well.”

  “It was only a scratch,” Dove repeated for the umpteenth time. Impatiently, he waited for Ash to mention Tillie, but he didn’t. An unworthy pang of jealousy had him wondering if his friend had actually put Tillie off calling on him.

  *

  In fact, the decision had been Tillie’s. Because she’d glanced up to the second floor, instinctively looking for Dove’s brother’s room, and she’d found it. Dove sat very close to it, gazing at Lady Lawrence as though enraptured. The lady was looking down as though overwhelmed by whatever amorous words he’d just spoken.

  Of course, she had no idea what those words were, or even if there were any at all. The little scene could have betokened anything. But that unblinking attention, that was something she had known directed at herself, and to see it now with another woman—one, moreover, to whom he had previously been engaged—devastated her. More even than driving up to the barracks with Kate and discovering him gone. She already knew from Dr. Lampton that he was well, and his wound healing, and she could not face meeting him just then, not with her present agitation, for she didn’t think she could hide her feelings well enough.

  “Do you think,” she asked Catherine as they walked back to the vicarage, “that a man can love his wife and his mistress at the same time?”

  “Tillie!” Catherine explained. “You aren’t supposed to know about such things, let alone talk about them.”

  “But do you think so?” Tillie insisted.

  “I have no idea.”

  Tillie glanced at Lord Sylvester, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. “Woul
d you mind if he had a mistress?”

  “Yes, she would,” Lord Sylvester said, scowling. “And I don’t. Neither does Doverton, to my knowledge.”

  Tillie flushed, finding it impossible to explain that she was the mistress she had been thinking about. And wondering if she could really share him with a wife. She didn’t think she could, even for however long he had left. And in fact, her imagination balked at Dove deceiving his wife. On the other hand, men were strange. Women always said so.

  More likely was the scenario that he would simply marry the Lawrence woman, once Tillie’s troubles with her uncle and cousin had been dealt with. Tillie thought she could even bow out gracefully, if Lady Lawrence would only make him comfortable and happy.

  “She wouldn’t,” Tillie said decisively.

  “I beg your pardon?” Catherine said.

  “Oh, nothing. I was thinking aloud. Do you mind if I ask you both something?”

  “If it’s about mistresses, I do mind,” Lord Sylvester said severely. “Even I know it ain’t a proper subject!”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Tillie assured him. “I was just wondering…which of you wanted to marry the other first?”

  “I did,” Sylvester said at once with no embarrassment whatsoever.

  “Were Mr. and Mrs. Winslow amenable?” Tillie asked.

  “Not exactly,” Sylvester said cautiously. “I was a penniless younger son with no prospects and a shocking reputation.”

  In some ways, Tillie thought ruefully, his position matched her own. She might not be penniless, but she was certainly deemed too unsuitable, if not downright wicked, to wed a Doverton. “Then how did you win her?”

  Catherine laughed. “He abducted me. But don’t tell anyone.”

  Tillie glanced from one to the other. Clearly it was a joke between them, but one with a modicum of truth. Discreetly, she asked for no more details, but her brain was galloping ahead and forming a daring plan that was—probably—too mad, even for her.

  *

  The following morning, she received a slightly bizarre letter from her father’s old friend, Mr. Hatton, asking her to do nothing until she received a visit from her trustees and another important personage. Since her only communication with Mr. Hatton since she’d come to Blackhaven was to inform him of her whereabouts, she was at a loss to understand what he meant.