Loving Lieutenant Lancaster

by Sarah M. Eden

  Arabella pulled her mind back to the present just as Dr. Scorseby returned to the small writing table where she stood. He sat and began writing out instructions, no doubt for the worried parents as well as the nursery maids.

  “Do you know if the dowager has been taking the powders I left for her a fortnight ago?” he asked, apparently, her.

  “I was not aware that she was meant to be taking powders,” Arabella said.

  He glanced up at her. “You are acting as her companion, are you not?”

  “I am, but I have not been privy to the more private aspects of her life.” It was a very circumspect way of saying “I serve no real purpose in this household.”

  He was still writing, somehow managing to keep his written words and his spoken ones from interrupting each other. “I sensed when I suggested the treatment that she was not fully convinced of the necessity.”

  Arabella grew alarmed. “Is her health in danger?”

  “It is nothing truly serious, but she will feel better if she uses the powders. That, in turn, will give her a better quality of life and greater longevity.”

  This did not sound like a simple thing. “What is the matter with her?”

  He shook his head. “I make a point of not divulging personal information about my patients. I would not have mentioned the powders if I hadn’t assumed you, as her companion, were aware of them.”

  How ridiculous she must seem, a companion who knew nothing of the lady she served. Her embarrassment was not the most pressing matter in that moment, however. “Does her son know?”

  Dr. Scorseby smiled, a sight that likely sent a lot of female hearts in Collingham aflutter. He was a handsome man, that was certain. “Which son?” he asked.

  A fair question. Mater had quite a few. “The earl.”

  The doctor nodded. “I did suggest she tell him, though I do not know if she has.”

  This non-dangerous ailment was significant enough that he thought Philip ought to know. The more Arabella heard, and it was minimal information, she admitted, the more convinced she was that this was an important matter after all.

  The late earl had passed so quickly, so unexpectedly. Only after his death had anyone seen the symptoms of his quickly declining health. She could not bear to think of Mater slipping away as well from poor health that had gone unaddressed.

  “I will see if I can ascertain whether or not she is taking the powders.”

  “I would appreciate that. And, please, encourage her to send for me if she is ever in need.” He finished his writing and stood once more. “I have a difficult enough time convincing the younger Lady Lampton to do as much. Two stubborn ladies in the same house is quite an obstacle to overcome.”

  The arrival of Lord and Lady Lampton shifted Dr. Scorseby’s attention to the countess. His was the evaluating and studying gaze of a man devoted to medicine. Arabella fully expected him to begin asking any number of questions of Lady Lampton, but he did not. He simply watched.

  To Arabella’s untrained eye, Lady Lampton appeared more pale than usual, which was something of a feat. She walked with a more pronounced limp and a heavier dependence on her walking stick.

  Philip was his usual frippery self. Usual, though, did not feel like the correct word. He had not always been this way. And over the past few days, she had been privy to a few instances when he had been anything but the mindless, fashion-focused dandy. The one thing that could be counted upon to secure his more responsible side was his wife’s health. If he was prancing and preening, Lady Lampton could not have been as ill as her appearance would suggest.

  “How are your children?” Lady Lampton asked both Lady Marion and the duchess.

  “Still miserable,” Lady Marion said, holding little Caroline’s hand. “But Dr. Scorseby tells us they are not in danger.”

  “He can be depended upon.” Lady Lampton spoke with conviction but little emotion. That was her way. Arabella didn’t think she lacked feeling or was careless of others’ concerns. Hers was simply a very frank manner. She made such a contrast to her husband.

  “Caroline.” Philip approached the red-cheeked little girl, swinging his quizzing glass as he so often did. “Have you been up at all hours dancing again? I am always very tired after a night of dancing.”

  She offered a feeble smile in answer.

  “The trick, you must understand, is to find a very fine pair of slippers.” Philip assumed a pose every bit as arrogant and self-important as the Prince Regent himself could possibly manage. “Inferior footwear is the very bane of our country at present—renders far too many people worn and weary.”

  “I wasn’t dancing, Uncle Flip.” The little girl’s weary voice held a bit of amusement.

  Lady Marion looked instantly relieved.

  “Weren’t you?” Philip shook his head in an overblown show of disbelief. “I thought for certain you must have been, the whole lot of you.”

  “Even Henry?” Caroline asked, weakly but with obvious enjoyment.

  “Especially Henry. All the Jonquil men are dancers from birth.”

  Arabella’s eyes shifted of their own accord to the Duke of Kielder, and she had to covertly cover her mouth with her hand to hide her grin. His annoyance had increased significantly. Only with great effort, which he appeared to resent, did he keep himself silent and in his seat while Philip waxed long about the joys of dancing.

  Caroline, despite her obvious discomfort, giggled a little, and more startling still, the very staid, intimidating Lady Lampton smiled at her husband. It was a sigh and a laugh all contained in the small upturn of her mouth.

  “Perhaps Lord Falstone is also worn thin by a night of revelry,” Lord Lampton said, turning to the small boy in his father’s arms. “Did—”

  “If you fill his head with your nonsense, I will—”

  “Adam.” The duchess cut off whatever no-doubt violent threat the duke meant to level at his host.

  “He is accusing my son of dancing, Persephone. I will not stand for it.”

  “Someday he will be dancing,” Her Grace said. “What do you mean to do then?”

  “I’ll disown him.” The duke was in a sour mood, even for him.

  Philip either didn’t notice or didn’t worry about it overly much. “If he finds himself in need of a few bits of dancing advice, I would be happy to—”

  “Do not try his temper, Lampton.” Her Grace sounded remarkably like her husband in that moment, who offered his host a look of satisfaction. “I will not rescue you if you push him too far.”

  “Everyone is pulled rather thin at the moment.” Lady Lampton apparently recognized the need to intervene. “Philip, focus your efforts on entertaining your niece so Marion can tend to Henry and so His Grace can be spared the necessity of shredding your tongue with a rusty garden rake.”

  Whether or not that was the threat the duke had originally thought of, he appeared to embrace it, nodding firmly in response to Philip’s curious gaze.

  “Dr. Scorseby, thank you for your efforts here,” Lady Lampton said. “Do let me know if anything else is needed.”

  “I will, my lady.”

  Lady Lampton’s commanding gaze fell on Arabella. “Will you walk with me a moment?”

  She dipped a curtsy even as her heart jumped to her throat. Was she in trouble? Had she neglected something she’d not known was required of her? Of all the members of the Lampton Park household, Lady Lampton intimidated her the most.

  Dr. Scorseby stopped her with a light touch of his hand, then, in a low voice, said, “I hope I might come by and see you again.”

  She didn’t know entirely how to respond. She would like to have a visitor, especially after the party was over and she and Mater were relegated to the dower house with only one another for company. Yet the idea of a visitor made her inarguably nervous. A nod was all she could manage. He took the agree
ment as encouragement and smiled warmly.

  Arabella met Lady Lampton in the corridor outside the nursery. The countess did not wait even a moment before speaking.

  “Though you are Mater’s companion, I hoped I might ask a favor of you, one personal to me.” There was both authority and uncertainty in her voice. It was an odd combination but one that rendered her less overwhelming. “You appear to be on friendly terms with Dr. Scorseby.”

  Arabella nodded. That was generally true.

  “Would you ask him if there is a time in the next few days when I might make a call on him at his house?”

  Physicians generally went to their patients and not the other way around. “Could you not ask him yourself?” She hoped the question sounded less impertinent than she feared it did.

  “I could, but my husband would likely overhear, and I would rather he not know.”

  She was being asked to keep this a secret from Philip? “Is this also meant to be hidden from the dowager?”

  “It is.” Lady Lampton must have sensed her growing uncertainty; she quickly spoke again. “It is nothing untoward, I promise you. I simply need Dr. Scorseby’s medical evaluation of a difficulty I am having. However, being very familiar with my husband’s tendency to fret, I do not wish him to be aware of it until I know if this is really anything worth being concerned about. And Mater cannot keep a secret from her son.”

  That, Arabella now knew, was not entirely true. She suspected not even Philip was aware that Dr. Scorseby had prescribed his mother powders for some mystery ailment.

  “I will relay your request to Dr. Scorseby when he has completed his efforts in the nursery,” Arabella said.

  Lady Lampton dipped her head and continued her belabored walk down the corridor. After a moment, Arabella absentmindedly wandered away as well.

  Philip was inciting a clash with the duke in the hope that his wife would rouse from her isolation to defend him. Lady Lampton was hiding something from her husband. Mater was hiding something from everyone else. Charlie felt abandoned and left out.

  Arabella might not have truly been a part of this family, but she was finding herself privy to more and more of their secrets.

  With her head down and her thoughts fully preoccupied, she walked directly into something. The force of the collision sent her lurching backward. Something stopped her, keeping her upright. The collision occurred so quickly she hadn’t a chance to piece together exactly what had happened, what she’d run into, what had saved her.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Hampton.” Mr. Lancaster. “I was not paying the least heed to where I was going.”

  She looked up into his startlingly handsome face, his sparkling green eyes, the rebellious golden curl falling across his forehead. He stood so close she could smell the hint of cinnamon that clung to him. His arm was wrapped around her, no doubt the reason she hadn’t fallen over. Warmth radiated from that simple touch. Her mind emptied, then filled with little beyond the sound of her own pounding heart.

  “Miss Hampton?” He watched her with confused concern. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “Unwell?”

  Again, she shook her head. He hadn’t relinquished his hold on her. She felt an unexpected, undeniable urge to lean in to the one-armed embrace, to rest her head against his shoulder. Confused and a little alarmed, she stepped back. His arm dropped to his side.

  “It seems I should traverse corridors with a bit more care,” she managed to say it lightly despite her spinning thoughts.

  “Gothic novels do warn us of dangers lurking around corners.”

  How grateful she was for a bit of banter. “Do you read a great many gothic novels?”

  “I read them exclusively. All sailors do.” He was teasing, as he so often did. Yet there was a tension in his posture, in his words, and filling the air between them. “You are certain you were not injured when we collided?”

  “I was merely startled,” she said.

  “I was a little startled myself.” His quiet admission set her pulse racing once more.

  “I should—I should see if the dowager is in need of anything.”

  “Of course.” He offered a quick, somewhat awkward bow.

  She executed an extremely brief curtsy and hurried down the corridor. Her feet took her not to the sitting room, where she felt certain Mater was, but to her own bedchamber. She closed the door and, heart still drumming in her head, crossed to the chair by the window.

  She sat, and for the first time since finding herself so unexpectedly in Linus Lancaster’s arms . . . she breathed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Linus’s mind was fully spinning. That very morning he had congratulated himself on having shed much of the nervousness he’d felt in Miss Hampton’s company. Standing so close to her just now, with his arm around her, that nervousness had returned in full force, accompanied by something new and unexpected: sometime in the last few days, he’d developed a small fancy for her. Although, judging by how hard his pulse was still pounding long after she’d left, he had to admit that fancy might not be so small.

  How had that happened? When had it happened?

  He needed a quiet place to think.

  The back terrace proved the wrong choice. Artemis and Charlie were already there. She was prattling on while he sat in silent and obvious disinterest. Linus stopped only a few steps onto the terrace, trying to decide if he should stay or keep searching for solitude.

  “Perhaps you will be in London next Season,” Artemis said to Charlie. “You should be old enough by then.”

  “Which would make you more than old enough, wouldn’t it?” Charlie muttered, slouching down in his chair.

  Artemis bristled a little. “I am the same age you are.”

  “Bad form, my man,” Linus said, pulling their attention to him. “Never cast aspersions upon a lady’s age.”

  “She was casting aspersions on mine,” Charlie said.

  “It is for a gentleman to endure, not reciprocate.”

  Charlie rolled his eyes. “Believe me, nothing about this exchange is reciprocated.”

  Artemis’s eyes widened. “You are not enjoying talking with me?”

  “Talking with you? There is no with. I am being talked at. I am not even certain you ever stop for air, let alone a reply.”

  She tipped her chin up confidently. “I will have you know there are any number of gentlemen who enjoy my conversation, seek it out even. They arrive in droves, hoping for even a moment’s exchange of words.”

  Charlie dropped his head against his upturned hand. “Could you not find one of them to talk at? I am getting a headache.”

  Artemis’s lips pursed, and she leaned menacingly forward on her chair. “I don’t like you, Charles Jonquil.”

  “I don’t care,” he replied. “And do not call me Charles.”

  All the haughty assurance returned to Artemis’s posture and tone. “You prefer Charlie? That is a child’s nickname. It is ridiculous for you to cling to it.”

  Charlie looked across at her, not with anger or challenge but with a growing weariness. “Do you truly want to engage in a competition over whose name is more ridiculous, Artemis?”

  She stood, the very picture of offended dignity.

  “Artemis, do calm yourself.” Linus’s attempt to rein her in was ignored.

  “My name is dignified and important,” she said. “You have a forgettable name because you are a forgettable person. Your own family overlooks you.”

  Charlie stood as well, matching her challenging posture. “And I have seen how your family looks at you. They don’t forget you’re present; they simply wish you weren’t.”

  “Enough.” Adam’s bark likely echoed across the entire back lawn. Though Linus had heard it many times before, even he felt a chill enter the air at that commanding and thr
eatening tone. Adam crossed the terrace to where the combatants stood, his bearing that of the Dangerous Duke all of Society feared. “Artemis, apologize.”

  She turned a sickeningly sweet smile on Charlie. “I am sorry to have told you something you likely already know.”

  “Again,” Adam said.

  Artemis’s jaw tightened, and her hands curled in fists. Still speaking to Charlie, she said, “I apologize for speaking rudely.”

  “Again. You’ll keep at it until you do it right.”

  Linus had wondered if Adam was equal to the task of dealing with their often-difficult youngest sister. He was beginning to realize that an unbending guardian who was not easily distracted and who cared very little for how he was perceived was likely the best thing for her. Artemis could not bend him to her will the way she did so many others.

  After a breath so deep it flared her nostrils, Artemis made a third attempt. “Mr. Jonquil, I apologize for the things I said. They were uncalled for and inappropriate.”

  “Better,” Adam said. His steely gaze fell on Charlie. “Your turn.”

  That he had offered Charlie the opportunity to apologize rather than calling him out or skinning him alive was a stroke of tremendous fortune, whether or not Charlie realized it. To the young gentleman’s credit, he wasn’t quaking in his boots, though some of his bluster had died away.

  “No matter the provocation, my remarks were inexcusable,” he said. “I hope that you will accept my apology for any pain I may have inflicted.”

  Both young people offered very stiff, very abbreviated motions of acceptance, though neither looked at the other nor gave any indication of being truly abject.

  “Come with me, Artemis,” Adam said. “We need to have a discussion.”

  “I do not wish to,” she said, quite on her dignity.

  “I did not ask you what you wished; I told you what needed to happen.”

  She set her fists on her hip. “I am not a child.”