Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “Mr. Stillman,” Therese said in patient reprimand as she replaced the cloth on his forehead. “This will ease your discomfort.”

  “A bottle of rum will ease my comfort,” he said through clenched teeth. He looked at the woman who had provided for his every need these last days. “I am dying, Therese. Can I at least get tonight’s sherry early?”

  “No, Mr. Stillman. This misery is healing you.”

  “You are as bad as she is.”

  He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Therese responded. “I am likely worse than Lady Sabrina, as I have cared for others facing your same demons. Do you even remember the last time you drank for pleasure and not to stave off feeling like this?”

  Harry couldn’t, but he wasn’t going to admit it. An emotion he could not quite identify rose in his chest: anger or fear or maybe just gutting sorrow. He could not do this. Unless he got his hands on another bottle and could save himself, he was going to die. He was sure of it.

  “It would do you well to eat something—toast, perhaps? Or some soup?”

  “I should like to try some toast,” Harry said more for her benefit than his as he did not think he would keep it down any more than he believed he could survive another day of this.

  If he was going to die, he would rather it happen sooner than later, and yet the thought of facing his death brought additional terror. What if he had to account to God for his life thus far?

  Lord Damion’s letter had told Harry to work toward doing good in the world. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he thought about how worthless his life had become. He wanted another chance, didn’t he? But he couldn’t imagine he would ever feel better, and yet he could not feel this way much longer because surely his head would explode.

  He must have slept because when he next opened his eyes, the sunlight coming through the window was rich and bright. He had one moment of peace before the nausea washed through him again and his head resumed its pounding. He found himself wishing for death again, then fearing it. He heard someone rise from the chair beside his bed and turned, expecting to see Therese keeping a deathwatch over him. Maybe with his toast in hand.

  Instead he blinked at the familiar but unexpected face before him. “Ward?” Was he hallucinating again?

  Ward’s expression was concerned as he leaned closer to the bed. “Good gracious, you look like death itself, Stillman.”

  Could a hallucination speak? He reached out and poked Ward’s shoulder.

  “It is really you,” Harry said, nearly crying again.

  Ward pulled his eyebrows together and laughed awkwardly. He sat back in his chair. “What’s happened to you?”

  Harry attempted to wriggle into a seated position, but between the dull ache in his shoulder and the sharp pain of his leg, he could not manage much.

  “Can I help you?” Ward said, rising to his feet.

  Had Ward any idea how lucky he was to be able to stand at will and walk wherever he wanted? Harry had been in this bed—and only this bed—for days, with Therese attending to his every bodily need, which was as embarrassing as anything he’d ever experienced in his life. Yet Ward could move about like it was nothing.

  “I would like to sit up,” Harry said, still watching Ward carefully. He might disappear at any moment. “Could you put some pillows behind my back?”

  Ward was not as efficient as Therese, but he was also not a hallucination, apparently. It took some doing before Harry was upright, but it made him feel less of an invalid to be at eye level.

  Only then did it occur to Harry that Ward was here. In Lady Sabrina’s house. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been writing back and forth with Mr. Gordon. He was dashed vague about what happened to you, and I wasn’t about to sit for that.” He huffed. “I finally received a letter from Lady Sabrina yesterday, revealing where you were and offering me the chance to visit if I would promise to keep your location private. She even provided a carriage.” Ward leaned in. “Well done, Stillman. Rumor has it she’s one of the wealthiest women in England, never mind that she’s a by-blow.”

  Harry pulled his eyebrows together. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s the illegitimate daughter of the Duke of Anglesey. Surely you knew that?”

  Harry shook his head. Lady Sabrina was illegitimate? Yet she had such a regal air.

  Ward continued. “Raised by the duke and everything, but her mother was only a mistress before his marriage. She married into money and then inherited everything when her husband died. As I’ve heard it, she manages his holdings better than he did—there’s a mine and a sheep farm and a number of holdings she’s expanded since.” He winked at Harry. “Many a man would like to find themselves at the mercy of a woman like her. She’s not bad to look at either, eh?”

  Harry felt his face flush as Ward’s meaning sank in; his mind was still soggy and slow. “She’s a tyrant, Ward. I’ve only spoken with her once since coming here, and she yelled at me for asking for brandy.” He huffed and shook his head, powerful in his position of authority in regard to Lady Sabrina. “Pretty? Yes. Appealing? Not in the least.”

  He heard the lack of gratitude too late and hurried to fix it, since he was trying to be a better man and all that. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m very grateful she came upon me, and she’s been incredibly generous, but there’s nothing more to my stay here than that. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

  A thought occurred to him, and he leaned forward, though it hurt his side and he had to suppress a groan. “Can I come back to London with you today? I’ll be an exemplary patient, I promise.”

  Therese had suggested he ask Uncle Elliott to take him in once he was well enough to travel, but there was so much disagreement between him and his uncle. Had he written a letter asking his uncle for sanctuary? He couldn’t remember.

  “I’m back in my rooms, Stillman,” Ward said. “And I don’t think you are in any condition to travel. My parents learned we stayed at the house and sent me a scathing letter.” He made a face. “I’ve decided to punish them by not speaking to them for the rest of the year.”

  Harry wasn’t sure that would be much punishment, but he had little space to sympathize with his friend. He slumped against the pillows. “I’m glad the gargoyle let you visit, that’s something at least.”

  “Gargoyle?”

  “Lady Sabrina,” Harry said. “I told you: she’s horrid.”

  Ward laughed. “I will bring your trunk the next time I visit. I hadn’t time to see it packed before I came.”

  That trunk contained all of Harry’s possessions outside of his estate, and it humbled him to think of all he’d lost these last months. Why had he called Lady Sabrina a gargoyle? She’d saved him.

  “That would be appreciated, Ward. Thank you,” Harry said.

  The men fell silent a moment, Ward watching him in a way that made Harry squirm. If Harry looked anything like he felt, it must be a gruesome sight.

  “What happened with Lord Damion, Stillman?” Ward finally asked. “You must have been attacked immediately after your meeting, right?”

  Harry told him what he remembered of how the men pulled him into the alley and then recounted Sabrina’s part of the story about how he got from there to here.

  “I daresay she saved my life, Ward,” he said. “But she is forcing me to come off the bottle, and I truly believe the attempts might kill me. I have never been so physically ill in my life.”

  “Not even after we ate those raw chicken livers on Christopher’s bet that we wouldn’t?”

  Harry shuddered. They’d gotten some sort of illness from those livers that had rendered him the sickest he’d ever been—until now. “I’d eat two pounds of livers if I could wash them down with a swallow of brandy.”

  What a whiny baby he’d become. Here he was in a fine bed in a fine house, with staff who attended to his every need, food—when he could stomach it—and every bit of it at no expense to him. Two weeks ago, he’
d been thrown from a club into the filth of an alleyway without a shilling to his name, and now he had fresh sheets and a vase of roses on his bedside table, for heaven’s sake. Could he be more ungrateful?

  Could he be more miserable?

  The desire to cry gripped him again, and he fought against it with all he had. He was not so ridiculous to cry in front of Ward. For mercy’s sake.

  When he had gained control of himself, he opened his eyes to see Ward watching him.

  “This is bad, man,” Ward said softly. He reached into an inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a silver-plated flask.

  Harry was overcome with such extreme longing that he nearly cried again, and yet the memory of all that Lady Sabrina and Therese had said about his needing to get off the drink kept him from reaching for it immediately.

  Ward held out the flask, and the tangy smell pushed Harry over the edge of his half-hearted resistance. He grabbed the flask and drank the whole of it—a fine, smooth bourbon that went down like hot silk. When he’d finished, he dropped his head against the pillows and reveled in the warmth that moved from his chest to his extremities, relaxing his tense muscles and easing the shakes. A single flask had erased the madness that had been steadily building. Magic.

  “Praise the heavens.” After a few seconds, he opened his eyes. “Have you anymore?”

  Ward laughed. “How many flasks do you think the average gentleman carries?”

  Harry nodded and tried to focus on how much better he felt. “You would think being beaten half to death would be worse than being denied the bottle, but it is not. I would not wish this on my worst enemy.” His body was already demanding a second drink, and a third, and a fourth.

  “Not even on Malcolm?”

  Malcolm. What a despicable man. If not for him, none of this would be happening. Yet, if not for drinking to the excess Harry had done for months on end, would he have made the same choices that had led him to borrowing from such a man? Harry looked at the empty flask on his coverlet. The shame of having drained it competed with his wish that he had more. It seemed that the situation was precisely as he feared: he could not overcome this. He was too weak.

  “So, did Lord Damion agree to pay off your debts?”

  “Yes,” Harry confirmed as though Lord Damion’s benevolence were only a side issue now. He stared at the flask as though it might refill itself if he wished for it hard enough. “Mr. Gordon is settling all my debts per Lord Damion’s instruction. What day is it today?”

  “Saturday,” Ward said.

  “Right,” Harry said, though he wasn’t sure he had known that. “By Monday, all the accounts should be settled. Mr. Gordon will send me a letter confirming that.” He paused, gratitude washing through him. “To have two rescuers as I have had—Lord Damion and Lady Sabrina . . . It is a miracle, Ward.”

  The empty flask glared at him in reproach. He could think clearly now, but at what cost? And for how long? Had he undone Therese’s ministrations? Slapped away Lady Sabrina’s caretaking? Delayed his body’s abilities to heal from the beating? A lump rose in his throat that he tried to swallow.

  “What was Lord Damion like?” Ward asked, leaning forward, elbows on knees.

  Harry thought back to the early morning meeting. “He wore red gloves.”

  Ward wrinkled his nose. “Red gloves?”

  Harry nodded, looking at his friend. “And a black coat. I saw his hand when I managed to peek through the slide in the wall.”

  “Slide?”

  Harry described the pub and the process of passing the paper back and forth through the opening in the wall.

  “And all you saw was his hand?”

  Harry nodded again. “I would guess him to be a gangly man from that minimal view.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He didn’t speak. Everything was written out on a paper I had to sign and date.” He shook his head. “It was all very odd.”

  Ward sat back in his chair. “I cannot believe you were that close to him and did not see him or hear his voice. Are you not curious? What if he is someone we know?”

  “I do not care who he is,” Harry said, closing his eyes to relish the ease he felt in his body, though not in his mind, where his shame continued to grow. “He took a chance on me. Let him keep his secrets.” Lady Sabrina had taken a chance on him as well, and yet he had betrayed her. His eyes opened as he remembered something. “He gave me a letter.”

  “Lord Damion?”

  Harry nodded, flushed with excitement. His mind worked so much better with just a little liquor. “After the transaction was finished, he gave me a letter confirming the terms and congratulating me on making a decision to change my life.”

  Ward chuckled, and Harry turned to him, wanting his friend to understand. “It was so . . . sincere, Ward. I don’t think I had realized until that moment what his motivation truly was. He wants to give me the chance to be a better man. I have a second chance, Ward.”

  Where was the letter? He patted his chest as though he were wearing a jacket, but of course he was in a borrowed nightshirt. He would ask Therese to search the jacket he’d been wearing when he’d arrived. Maybe reading Lord Damion’s words again would help give Harry the fortitude to continue.

  “That is good, then,” Ward said, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “Shall I bring you a supply when I bring your trunk?”

  Harry opened his mouth to say no, but different words came out. “Would you?”

  The idea that he could temper his misery overwhelmed every other thought. He knew he needed to give up drink, it had come to rule him, but he did not agree with Lady Sabrina’s methods. He would not overindulge. He would just take the edge off, so he did not feel as though he were being eaten alive from the inside out. A drink or two a day was so much less than he was used to. In time, the sherry and the ale might even be enough to get him through.

  Ward shrugged. “I could manage a few bottles so long as the wardens here don’t do a search. Perhaps request mint leaves to keep beside the bed for your breath. Remember how we did that in school to keep the teachers from finding us out?” He gave a nostalgic smile.

  Harry was glad for the suggestion as he would never have thought of such a detail on his own. “Bless your ever-living soul,” he breathed in the manner of worship. “I shall count the hours until your return, my friend, and live forever in your debt.”

  Sabrina carried a vase of newly cut roses toward the “sickroom,” as Mr. Stillman’s bedchamber had become known among the household. It was Saturday evening, but this would be only her second visit to the patient. She thought it best that they not become too well acquainted, especially before he was off the drink.

  She still wasn’t certain it had been a good idea to allow Mr. Ward to visit earlier today, but refusing his request might have led him to raising his voice in London about what he already knew. She had met Mr. Ward briefly when he arrived, and he seemed amiable enough. On his way out, he’d asked if he could visit again the next day and bring Mr. Stillman’s things. She’d felt unable to refuse him even though she would be in London by then.

  She knocked lightly on the door to Mr. Stillman’s room, and, after he issued the invitation, let herself in.

  He lay abed, literally twiddling his thumbs on top of the bedclothes. He looked at her and smiled somewhat tightly. From Therese’s reports, he had been having a hard time of it, but he looked as though he’d turned the corner.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stillman,” she said, crossing to set the roses on the bedside table. He looked at the roses with a neutral expression, just as he had the first bouquet she’d brought on Tuesday night. When he looked back at her, his irritation was clearly visible. Perhaps he had not turned a corner after all. She braced herself for confrontation.

  “I thought I would see how you were faring before I left for the weekend.” Though she’d avoided the sickroom, she’d been at Rose Haven since Thursday, and Therese had kept her updated on the news she needed to know
. Sabrina had spent the days writing out the invitations to Nathan’s dinner party, reviewing the last quarter’s accounts for both the pub and the snuff shop, catching up with friends and neighbors here in Wimbledon, and attending to Hortencia’s roses, which was her only real hobby.

  During the first year of Richard and Sabrina’s marriage—back when Sabrina had believed their difficulties would sort themselves out—Hortencia would sit on a chair and explain to Sabrina what a blind shoot was and why too much greenery would result in too few blooms. She had been a lovely woman—the best part of Sabrina’s marriage—and tending to her roses helped keep her influence strong in Sabrina’s life.

  “How are you feeling tonight, Mr. Stillman? Therese said you’ve had a hard few days but seemed improved this afternoon.”

  “I have been improved for a short time, yes,” he said, his tone cantankerous. “But then this evening the misery has returned.” He wiped at his forehead rather dramatically. “I believe it would be better for all of us if I were to taper off slowly. Five years of hard drinking is not something to be undone in a few days.”

  “Ale with your meals and a glass of sherry at night is sufficient to take off the edge.”

  “It does barely that, if it does anything at all!”

  Sabrina raised her eyebrows at his harsh tone. “Oh, then perhaps we should discontinue even those considerations.”

  “No,” he said quickly—desperately—his tone softened by fear. “I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but my misery is beyond the extreme. If you had ever experienced this type of situation personally, you would know that this is nothing short of torture.”

  Such dramatics, Sabrina thought. “Did you enjoy your visit with Mr. Ward?”

  The change of topic seemed to confuse him, then he nodded. “Yes, it was very good to see him.”

  “I imagine his visit was a welcome distraction.”

  A flash of something—guilt? regret?—crossed his face before he lowered his eyes to the bedcovers. “He brought to me the best improvement I have had for days.” His tone was flat, and Sabrina wondered if Mr. Ward had brought bad news.