“Good evening, my lord. Harrison Hornsby, Marquess of Tennington. Do you mind if I sit?”
The earl peered over the top of his spectacles. “Gransford’s heir? Take a seat, my lad. I have a great respect for your father and his good works. We need more like him in the House of Lords. I must say I am pleased you follow in his footsteps. I quite enjoyed your grand speech on medical reform last autumn. Well done.”
Harrison pulled his chair around to face the earl. “Thank you, my lord. It is that very medical reform about which I wish to speak. I promise not to take up much of your time.”
“Then be swift and sure in your converse, Lord Tennington.” The earl leaned forward on his cane, giving Harrison his full attention.
“I am about to embark on a mission to set up a charity medical clinic. As you know, the truly destitute are turned away from the infirmaries. I wish to have a place of safety, a last resort for those in need. The nuns of St. Dunstan’s Church in Stepney, trained nurses all, will serve in this clinic along with myself and a colleague. At least until the place is running properly.”
The earl arched an eyebrow. “You, a marquess?”
“I’m a trained physician, my lord. Unfortunately, I am not able to practice except in the most clandestine of ways.”
A slow smile crept across the earl’s face. “Still waters run deep, Tennington. Color me impressed. Is your father aware of your charity work?”
Harrison shook his head. “No, but I will inform him next I am at the manor at end of this month. Would you be interested in such a proposal?”
“I am. I came to London for the session, but will be returning to Essex in two weeks. My lungs cannot tolerate this foul London air. Seek me out day after next at Westminster. Three in the afternoon on the terrace. I believe we will have a good deal to discuss. I will also ask the Earl of Carnstone to attend.”
Harrison knew him slightly. Though in his eighties, Julian Wollstonecraft was in better health than Shaftesbury, and also a strong progressive voice in the House of Lords. The two men worked side-by-side for decades on various reforms and bills. Harrison stood, then held out his hand and the earl took it. “I appreciate it, my lord. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He snorted. “At this ball? Not very likely. I only came to please my wife and granddaughter.”
Smiling, he bowed, then headed toward Sam with an extra spring in his step. Tonight was not a complete loss.
* * *
After dropping Sam at his flat, Harrison headed to Pratt’s at Park Place. He was a member of the club and decided a game of billiards and perhaps a drink or two would help him unwind. Before saying goodnight to Sam, he relayed his conversation with the earl, and they both agreed they were off to a solid start regarding their plans. With Shaftsbury in their corner, and possibly Carnstone, they could line up several more peers to support their venture. Bringing his father and brothers on board would only strengthen the cause.
Now past two in the morning, and feeling more than a little fuzzy-headed from the brandy at Pratt’s, he instructed the carriage driver to take him to Stepney. Since he was wide awake, might as well check in at terminus and see if he was needed. At this time of night, one of the nuns would be there along with the trusted volunteers who kept the underground clinic safe.
The clop-clop of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles was the only sound he could hear, though judging by the odor, he must be in the East End. Though not as rank as in previous decades, the smell of the sewer still permeated the air.
For the first time in ages, Harrison felt he was accomplishing something worthwhile. Yes, the nights he toiled away at the terminus were also rewarding, but the never-ending stream of poor people could be disheartening.
Damn it, the sickeningly sweet punch he consumed at the ball along with the three brandies at the club took their toll. Harrison banged on the roof of the carriage with his walking stick and the vehicle came to an abrupt halt.
The window slid open. “Yes, my lord?”
“Stop at the next alley you see, I have a call of nature.”
“There is one to your right, my lord.”
Harrison pushed aside the curtain. From the flickering illumination of the gaslight, he spotted the alley the driver spoke of. “I will be but a moment. I can manage the steps.”
After he opened the door, he unfolded the metal steps and descended from the carriage. Sprinting across the cobbles, he entered the alley and upon finding it empty, unbuttoned the fall of his trousers and pulled out his prick. The steady stream was indeed a relief.
Something between a groan and a whimper caught his attention. Finishing, he righted his trousers and pulled his cloak across his body. “Is anyone there?”
Silence. He walked forward, though it was dark the lamppost cast enough light that he was able to spot crates piled high in the corner. Was that a boot peeking out from behind? Grabbing the top crate, he pushed it aside and the band of illumination fell upon the face of a woman in obvious distress.
God above, it was Miss Best! At her feet lay a rotten apple core and bread crumbs. Her eyes were closed, but she clutched her bundle tight to her chest. The blanket still hung about her shoulders as it had the last time he’d seen her.
Without hesitation, Harrison pulled the rest of the crates aside, then hooked his elbow under her knees, and lifted her up into his arms. Her face was pale, perspiration beaded along her hairline. Blood had seeped through one of her tattered gloves.
“Miss Best!”
She did not answer, nor did her eyes flutter. Harrison ran out into the street. “You there!” he called to the hansom cab driver. “Hop down and get the door.”
The man touched his forelock and did as commanded. Harrison placed one foot on the step. “Forget Stepney High Street; make haste to forty-three Marylebone Road. If you can get us there in less than fifteen minutes, I’ll pay you with a gold guinea.”
The driver’s face lit up and he touched his forelock again. “At once, my lord.”
Once settled inside, the driver closed the door, and with a jarring start, the carriage was off at a brisk clip. Miss Best lay across his lap. Pushing her hair from her face, he was shocked to see how pale she was. Laying the back of his wrist on her forehead, he frowned. The poor woman was burning up.
“Why on earth did you run, Miss Best? If that is your name,” he whispered. “Are you this mysterious Lydia Chesterton the police are seeking?”
His finger trailed across her cracked lips. Dehydration. No doubt malnutrition. He pulled off her glove and hissed through his teeth at what he found. A bite, no doubt from a rat. It had broken the skin and bled. What are the odds that he alone would find her? Fate had certainly taken a hand. Harrison’s thoughts drifted to his visit last month with his family, and Tremain relaying how he met his future wife, Eliza.
Eliza had been turned out of an earl’s house in disgrace, and during her journey, viciously attacked. Robbed and nearly raped. Tremain found her in a snowbank not far from the vicarage. His brother described the incident as if he was a knight of old, rescuing a maiden in distress. How he’d been attracted to her from the first, though he’d tried to deny it. How it slowly but surely melted his frozen heart and brought alive every emotion he long buried, including his overwhelming need to protect her.
There was nothing else Harrison wanted to do than to protect this lovely lady from the severity of life. The strength of his protective instinct shocked him. Never experienced this with any woman before. It was as Tremain described, every emotion crackled with newfound life and energy. Dear God. What to do about it? First priority was seeing Miss Best well. In the meantime, he would try to understand what was happening, and discover if the attraction was mutual.
Chapter 7
With slow increments, Lydia became aware of her surroundings. At first the crackling sound of wood burning in the hearth entered her consciousness.
Fire. Am I in hell?
She opened her eyes, trying to blink aw
ay the haze obscuring her vision.
“At last, you’re awake, miss.”
Lydia turned her head slightly and fixed her gaze on the person sitting beside her. An older woman in a simple wool dress and pinafore sat close by mending a shirt. Spreading her fingers, the realization that she lay in an actual bed surprised her. A bed with quality linens and blankets.
“Where…whe…” Blast it, her voice was as rough as sandpaper.
“Where are you? Why, in the London home of the Marquess of Tennington. You’ve been sick with fever these two days. Touch and go it was and no mistake. His lordship brought you in during the dead of night. Roused me, I’m the housekeeper by the way, Mrs. Wickes, and roused Youngston the under-butler. You were shivering something fierce.”
Lord, the woman was a talker. Lydia could barely keep up with the conversation her mind was so muddled. “M-m-my bundle…”
“Never fear. The contents are safe in a drawer. There, in that tall dresser. The bundle itself had to be burned along with your clothes. Fleas and the like.”
She’d picked up crawlers at last. The alley she hid in was utterly disgusting.
The woman stood and poured a glass of water. “His lordship instructed me if you were to wake, to make sure you drank two glasses of water before anything else.” Carefully lifting Lydia’s head, she held the glass to her lips. “Drink now, miss. Slowly. It’s important for your recovery, or so says his lordship.”
Too weak to resist, Lydia swallowed down the cool water, it tasted like ambrosia. Mrs. Wickes poured another and patiently waited until Lydia drank it dry. Placing her head gently on the pillow, she exhaled, and before she could draw her next breath a vicious coughing fit overtook her.
The housekeeper wiped away the mucus from her lips. “Still sick. His lordship did say it would be many days before you would feel better, and weeks before the cough left you.”
Fussing about the room, Mrs. Wickes nodded. “I must return to the kitchen for a bit. You rest. Sleep. His lordship is at parliament this afternoon, a very important meeting, he says. But he did want me to relay to you that he’ll speak to you when he returns. If you’re awake. And thanks be to God, you are. I will fix you some beef broth and return shortly.”
The woman left the room, and Lydia tried to gather her thoughts. What was the last thing she remembered? Not much as she’d been slipping in and out of consciousness. Before she lost all awareness, there was the sound of a man relieving himself. Lydia had groaned, and the man called out. After that all grew dark until she awoke moments ago.
Well, she did have strange dreams, probably fueled by the fever. A man tended her, wiping her forehead, speaking gently. Someone had bathed her. Could it be the marquees or had she imagined it? Or perhaps she’d dreamed of Dr. Damian. The man’s features remained fuzzy throughout her dreams. Why on earth would an aristocrat personally see to her care? Bring her to his home? It made no sense.
Lydia never managed to leave London; in fact she remained hidden in the same alley she’d escaped to. Illness would not allow her to venture farther. She admonished herself for running from the underground sanctuary, but what choice did she have?
Perhaps if she’d laid her trust in the nun and the mysterious doctor…? A lone tear escaped her eye. Blast it, she despised being a victim. Helpless. Dependent on strangers. Her father raised and trained her to be self-sufficient, and before she’d got herself tangled up with John Huntsford, she’d been managing quite nicely.
Weak. Of both mind and constitution.
Because she was lonely and believed herself in love, she gave John money whenever he asked for it. The wretched man always had a ready and plausible excuse, and she blindly accepted his lies. Before she knew it, he’d coaxed her to sell most of her possessions and move into his grubby rooms. Her savings were quickly devoured. Lydia suspected in addition to the drugs, he gambled as well.
Yet she stayed. Hoping against hope things would turn around. But John started to make mistakes at work which he readily blamed on others. And got away with it. Then he came up with the scheme to rob the pharmacy at St. Thomas—
“Good day, miss.”
Lydia never heard the man come into the room. The marquess stood at the foot of her bed, looking every inch an aristocrat. Her rescuer. Her savior. He was above average height; she would guess a shade under six feet. His black hair was styled to perfection, and the light reflected on shades of brown mixed in. How unique. Hard to make out the color of his eyes as he stood far enough away, but then her vision was still hazy.
But not enough to see the marquess was a handsome man. A wide mouth and a longish nose kept him from complete perfection, but it made his face arresting. No long side whiskers as many men sported of late, but a thin, close-cropped beard.
“Are you able to speak?” His voice was deep, but empathetic.
Lydia shook her head.
“You’ve been here three days. You are welcome to stay as my guest until you’re completely recovered. I understand it may take a week or more. Do you?”
She nodded.
“Excellent. You nearly succumbed to the fever, and the bite on your hand has a slight infection. Was it a rat?”
Lydia nodded, glancing at her wrapped hand. The ghastly creature had tried to snatch her bread as she nodded off. They had quite a struggle over it until the beast nipped her hand. There was no sleeping peacefully after that.
“The bite has been treated. I do not believe it will turn putrid.”
How would he know? Perhaps a doctor informed him. Did his lordship engage a doctor to treat her? What an extravagance.
“All I ask in return for staying here? When you’re able to converse, I require you to reveal the facts of your circumstances. Do you promise to tell me the complete truth?”
Frankly, she was weary of lying. Where had it gotten her so far? There was the chance this marquess would toss her out as soon as he heard her wretched story. Lydia no longer cared. As long as she could recover first. One thing at a time. Closing her eyes, she nodded.
“Excellent. The housekeeper will be along with a bowl of broth, eat it all then sleep as long as you like. Good afternoon.”
Lydia assumed he left. His luxurious voice settled over her like a warm blanket. As she drifted off she wondered: had she heard the melodic tones before?
* * *
Harrison marched down the hall to his rooms, crossed the threshold to find Gillis waiting for him.
“Are you going out tonight, my lord?”
He should venture to terminus as Miss Best was in no condition for an extended conversation. “I will be heading to my club after dinner. What is on the menu tonight?”
Gillis stepped forward to remove Harrison’s jacket. “Poached salmon in a dill sauce. Roasted carrots. Other assorted well-seasoned root vegetables swimming in a rich sauce, I imagine.” His valet replied dryly. “Was your meeting with the Earl of Shaftesbury and the Earl of Carnstone a success, my lord?”
Gillis deftly removed his shirt, then slipped his dressing gown over his shoulders. “Yes. A complete success.”
“Then may I suggest a celebratory brandy and a short nap before dinner? You look weary, my lord.”
It was worse than weary, he looked utterly done in. Most peers would not tolerate such forwardness from a valet, but Gillis had been with him since before he came of age. Harrison wondered if Gillis suspected about the secret doctor life he led. If his valet did, he never let on.
“I believe I shall—”
The door opened. “Pardon me, my lord,” Youngston announced. “Dr. Kenward requests an audience. Shall I tell him you are not available?”
So much for his nap. “No, show him to the study and pour us a couple of brandies, then we wish to be left alone.”
“I shall inform Mrs. Wickes there will be one more for dinner.”
His staff was well used to Sam arriving at mealtimes. Deciding to keep his dressing gown on, he joined Sam in the study ten minutes later. His friend w
as already sitting comfortably before the fire with a brandy snifter in hand.
“Sorry old stick, I couldn’t wait, I had to know how the meeting with the earls went. Thank you for the invite for dinner. Could use a good meal, and by the looks of you, so could you.”
Harrison sighed, gathered up his snifter, and sat in the wingchair opposite.
“Where have you been the past three days?” Sam asked. “You appear as if you have hardly slept, and you haven’t been at terminus except and hour here and there—”
He raised a hand to silence his good friend. “The night of the ball, I was on my way to the terminus when I stopped for a call of nature in an alley. I found a young woman in distress.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Do not tell me you brought the alley cat here to your home. Why didn’t you bring her to terminus? We could have cared for her there. Harry, bringing home strays is not exactly prudent.”
No, it certainly wasn’t. He could have taken her to one of the infirmaries, the workhouse, or to any number of places. The police even. Perhaps he’d grown soft. Harrison swirled his brandy. “Do you know of someone I could hire, a private investigative type who is discreet and trustworthy?”
“I do as a matter of fact. William Robins is a retired detective sergeant from this area. He also worked in the East End and is quite familiar with the streets and those who live there. Is it with regards to this young woman?”
“Yes, but first let me relay the conversation with Shaftesbury and Carnstone. They both expressed a genuine interest in the clinic. They want us to find a suitable location, nothing too large or elaborate, and write up a proposal we can present to a small select group of prospective donors. Carnstone will be involving his son, Aidan Wollstonecraft, Viscount Tensbridge, as well. He is Member of Parliament for Kent. I will make sure my father and brothers are in attendance, well, Tremain at least. I’m sure Spencer will forego such a gathering.” Harrison took a sip of brandy. “It appears I will be coming out of the shadows as you predicted.”
The Marquess of Secrets (The Hornsby Brothers Book 3) Page 5
