“I am glad to hear of your improvement. Did you remind Mr. Ward to keep your whereabouts a secret?”
Mr. Stillman raised his head, his expression serious. “I did, and he gave his word.”
“We can trust him, then?”
“I would trust him with my life, Lady Sabrina.”
“Good,” she said with a crisp nod. She looked about the room in case there was something she could use to initiate further conversation. Some part of her wanted to stay, which made no sense at all since she had already done what she set out to do, which was to see how Mr. Stillman was faring and deliver the fresh bouquet. “He will be bringing your things tomorrow, I believe.”
“Yes,” Mr. Stillman said simply.
“Very good.” Since Mr. Stillman had been so very down on his luck, the clothing Mr. Ward was bringing would most likely not be clean. “We shall have everything laundered, pressed, and hung so it will be ready when you are capable of dressing in regular attire.”
Mr. Stillman would be dependent for a while yet on the nightshirts she’d provided. They were new, from a seamstress in London who kept such things on hand. After Richard’s death, she’d emptied the house of anything that reminded her of him, including his clothing, and redecorated every room, except the rose parlor which Hortencia had designed years earlier.
“That would be fine,” Mr. Stillman said, “but I should like to sort through the trunk with his help first and make sure all is in order before turning over my clothing to the staff.”
“Certainly.”
“I asked Therese earlier to check the coat I had been wearing when I arrived. There was a letter in the inside pocket—do you know if she found it? It was without an envelope. Cream paper, folded in half, then in fourths to fit within the pocket.”
“A letter?” Did he mean Lord Damion’s letter? One was given to every client at the conclusion of their meeting as a receipt of sorts that also included encouragement toward the betterment of their lives.
“It is very important to me,” Harry said, smoothing the bedcovers across his hips.
Fearing she might look too concerned, she forced a smile to make sure she didn’t betray any knowledge of this letter. “A love letter, then?”
“No.” Mr. Stillman shook his head. “A letter from a . . . friend. A friend who was assisting me in some matters of business.”
“Ah,” Sabrina said. “Is he the same friend you have been corresponding with these last days—one Mr. Gordon of London?”
It would be silly to pretend she did not know about the letters going back and forth in her messenger pouch. Of course, they were all sealed, so she did not read them herself, but Mr. Gordon sent her daily updates of their communication. It was absurd that all this was happening in one household. Maybe one day she would laugh about it, though she would be laughing alone, which made it far less funny.
“No, a different friend. Therese has not found the letter, then?”
“She did not mention to me that you had asked after it, but I shall follow up with her. It was in your coat, you say?
“Yes, the letter offered some encouragement I would find helpful to revisit amid all this.” Mr. Stillman picked at the bedspread and then looked up. “I would like to be reminded that at least one person has faith in me.”
She watched him, suspecting his humility might be manipulation on his part. “You do not have faith in yourself, Mr. Stillman?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure if I have faith in anyone. Or anything.” He met Sabrina’s gaze, and, as before, she felt pinned by the intense blue. “Are you a woman of faith, Lady Sabrina?”
“I am,” she said.
“Then you believe people can change?”
“Change how, exactly?”
“Their character, who they have become, what they want from life.” He took a breath, then looked back at the coverlet, perhaps to hide the vulnerability his musings were bringing to the surface.
“I do believe people can change, Mr. Stillman, but I believe it takes more than a circumstance or even the desire. It takes work and fortitude and the willingness to be . . . uncomfortable as the changes take root.”
He looked at her. “You do not think being left for dead in an alley is enough to change a person?”
“No,” she said quickly and firmly. “Once you have regained your health and functionality, you will have choices to make day by day, sometimes hour by hour, in regards to the man you want to be. You will have to face the hardships of life without the vices that have cushioned you from the struggles. That will be the true test. This—” She waved toward him lying in the bed, incapable of doing anything for himself. “This is a chance to prove that change is possible. Your choices and abilities are limited now, so it will not be until after you leave here that you will know for certain if you can do the work necessary to live differently than you have so far.”
Had he paled slightly as she’d shared her advice? She took a step toward him. “Are you all right, Mr. Stillman?”
“Maybe there are those who cannot overcome their nature, no matter how badly they want to.”
That soft place inside her heart became softer. How frightening it would be to think yourself incapable of improvement. “I believe the only people who cannot change are those who are unwilling to face the pain behind the poor choices they have made. Certainly, there are those people. You, however, are not one of them.”
He startled. When he spoke, it was a whisper. “How can you know that?”
“Because you are asking the right questions.” She smiled. “And asking the right questions will lead you to the answers that most men do not really want to find.”
They looked at one another, and she waited to see him soften, but he continued to look unsure.
“You are very wise, Lady Sabrina,” Mr. Stillman finally said.
Sabrina felt herself blush at the compliment and had the unwelcome thought that perhaps she could earn further appreciation by straightening her back and showing her figure to its advantage. The thought was a sure indication that it was time to leave this room. She forced her eyes away from his.
“I will ask the staff to look for your letter. Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave for Town, Mr. Stillman? I shall not be back until Tuesday.”
“No, thank you.”
She quit the room and checked that the carriage was ready before locating Therese in the housekeeper’s office. “Mr. Stillman mentioned he’d asked after a letter that had been in his coat when he arrived.”
Therese finished a note in the daily log and put down her pencil. “None of the staff I’ve spoken to has seen it. We will keep looking.”
“Very good. It seems to be rather important to him. I hope it is found for Mr. Stillman’s sake.”
And her own.
If Lord Damion’s letter wasn’t found, then it had either been lost within the household or removed before she’d discovered Mr. Stillman in that alley—she’d have seen it if it had fallen in the alley or carriage. The second possibility brought to mind her concerns about what Malcolm might have learned about Mr. Stillman’s meeting with Lord Damion and about Mr. Gordon’s concerns about Malcolm’s difficult nature.
Mr. Gordon had said Malcolm was not responding to his messages thus far, so he had been focused on settling Mr. Stillman’s other accounts before demanding a response from the disreputable lender. She would talk to Mr. Gordon about her concerns and get his opinion while she was in London.
As Sabrina settled in the carriage across from Molly, she took a calming breath. There was nothing revealing about the letter Lord Damion had given to Mr. Stillman. She used a practiced penmanship she had developed solely for Lord Damion’s correspondence, and she never included anything that could identify her.
For the first time since Mr. Gordon had said they would need to discontinue Lord Damion’s lending, she felt a sense of relief to put the disguise behind her. The fear of discovery had existed from the start but had not sur
passed her determination . . . until now. Now she felt responsible for Mr. Stillman having been beaten in the alley, and she worried about what could happen if Malcolm, or someone like him, became determined to find answers.
She reminded herself of what Mr. Gordon had said regarding the good they had done. The final letter she wrote to each of her foxes was about how every bit of good a person did made the world a better place. She’d done a bit of good and would find other ways to help people in need.
It was time for Lord Damion to hang up his cloak.
“Is everything all right, Lady Sabrina?”
Sabrina looked up, wondering what Molly had read in her expression. She quickly put on a better face. “Yes, of course. I am only thinking about what is left to be done in London. Will you be seeing your mother while we are staying in Town?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Molly said. “Whenever you can spare me.”
“I never heard how she was faring after your last visit,” Sabrina said kindly. “Was she at all improved?”
Molly blinked back tears, then stared at her hands in her lap. “No, ma’am. Not at all.”
Sabrina continued to ask questions, drawing from the young woman the hurt and sorrow she felt to lose her mother. By the time they reached London, Sabrina had already begun forming the ideas of providing a place for servants who could no longer work. Most of them relied on family, but Molly’s mother was in a workhouse. She was not required to work due to the compassion of the patron who funded the house, but the conditions were poor.
Sabrina would not need to hide her identity for such an enterprise as a charitable convalescent home for elderly service workers, which would be a relief.
When doors closed, windows opened. Perhaps she might find a way to share that insight with Mr. Stillman. The harder portion of his recovery would be dealing with the demons that drink had kept at bay, but if he could vanquish those, life could be brighter than it had been for a very long time.
On Tuesday, Sabrina was preparing for a garden party—her last society event before Nathan’s dinner on Friday night—when she received a letter from Mr. Gordon. The letter reported that all of Mr. Stillman’s creditors had received their payments and signed a receipt stating as much—except Malcolm. The lender had finally responded to Mr. Gordon’s message with a message of his own: he would sign a settlement agreement only if Mr. Stillman was present during the pay off.
Mr. Gordon was concerned. So was Sabrina. And both of them were ready to be done with Malcolm once and for all.
She penned a response, asking Mr. Gordon to offer Malcolm an additional fifty pounds if they could settle the account by Thursday. They had never overpaid a debt in this way, but since this was their last fox, she was eager to be finished. Her monthly meeting with Mr. Gordon was scheduled for next week, and she sincerely hoped the matter with Malcolm would be settled by then.
She caught up on a few other matters of correspondence before she ordered her carriage. If it made more sense for her to simply stay in London rather than travel back and forth to her country estate in less than two days, well, she did not look at that too closely.
Joshua greeted her at the door of Rose Haven that evening. Once relieved of her summer cloak and hat, she asked that Therese join her for tea in the rose parlor.
“Mr. Stillman seems to be doing quite well,” Therese said when she arrived a few minutes later, bringing the tea tray with her. “Mr. Ward has been visiting, which has improved his mood.”
Sabrina poured while Therese filled her plate. “I am glad to hear it. He is no longer ill?” She handed over Therese’s cup.
“No,” Therese said, nodding her thanks as she took the saucer. “He is talkative, joking. He asked Joshua to play cards with him after Mr. Ward left this afternoon. I prevented that.”
“Well done,” Sabrina said, sipping her tea. She stood and walked to the window to look outside at the pops of color amid the green foliage of the rose garden. Roses bloomed from May to September in this part of the country—half the year almost. No matter how long and cold the winter was, the roses would begin blooming in spring and keep up the celebration all summer long.
She turned back to Therese and their conversation. “The last thing Mr. Stillman needs—or Joshua for that matter—is to play cards.”
“That is what I thought as well.”
“I am glad to hear that Mr. Stillman is through the worst of the misery. I shall look in on him this evening.” She returned to her chair across from Therese. “And how is the rest of the household faring? Has the excitement of Mr. Stillman’s presence finally settled into routine?”
After visiting with Therese, Sabrina enjoyed a simple, cold supper of ham, cheese, and buttered green beans from Cook’s garden. It was the height of summer, and the vegetables were at their peak. Mr. Stillman had venison stew for today’s supper and was gracious about finally receiving meat.
Later, Sabrina knocked on Mr. Stillman’s door but was met with silence. She paused, then let herself into the room.
Mr. Stillman was asleep against the pillows, his head turned away from the door. The light from the lamp beside his bed reflected off his golden hair. His nightshirt lay open at the neck and chest, and a shimmer of attraction got the better of her. She thwarted her embarrassment with an immediate justification. What woman would not feel attraction to a man as handsome as Mr. Stillman?
To keep herself from being too admiring, however, Sabrina crossed the room and evened the curtains on the rod, then straightened the rug that was a few inches out of alignment in front of the hearth. She expected her movements might wake Mr. Stillman, though she was careful not to be too disruptive, but he still had not stirred by the time she’d run out of things to do. Her eyes landed on the bouquet of roses she had brought to his bedside last Saturday.
The blooms were still vibrant, but some were beginning to droop at the neck. She rearranged the order so those with hanging heads were in the center and pulled off a few of the petals that had begun to dry at the edge. Rubbing the wilting petals between her fingers released a bit of fragrance, and she inhaled the perfume deeply. There was a small bowl filled with leaves set beside the bouquet, and she lifted one to her nose—mint. The plant was a remedy for nausea, which Mr. Stillman had certainly been experiencing, but a tea would be more effective than smelling or chewing the leaves.
Sabrina turned toward the door, thinking that she would look in on him again after she read the day’s papers, but the sound of Mr. Stillman shifting spurred her to turn toward him. He was not awake, however, simply adjusting his shoulders as he turned his head to the other side of the pillow—facing her. His braced leg prevented him from moving much more than that. He smacked his lips and then settled back into sleep. What was it about sleeping that made everyone look so angelic?
She watched him for several seconds, then was turning back to the door when she noticed something peeking out from beneath the covers beside him. It was dark but smooth, reflecting the candlelight. Sabrina took a few steps closer to the bed, then stopped abruptly. The top of a bottle?
She marched across the remaining space, reached over him, and pulled at the neck of the bottle.
He woke suddenly, his eyes wide, and shrank into the pillow, to stunned to try to stop her.
“W-what?” He blinked at her, then looked at the bottle held in her fist, then back to her face and then to the place where the bottle had been. The stupidity of his reflexes spiked her rage another degree.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded. He had invited Joshua to play cards. Had he also convinced Joshua to bring him liquor? Had he worked his charms on a maid? No, she recognized the label as a brand a servant would not be able to afford. And Mr. Stillman had no money to pay for himself. She stared at Mr. Stillman, her chest prickling with indignation. “Where?”
“I, uh . . . You were not supposed to find that.” He pointed at her, a bit wobbly. Is this what Therese had interpreted as cheerful? How had the nurse not noticed her p
atient’s misery was alleviated because he was keeping himself in the drink?
“I’m sure that I wasn’t.”
“L-Lady Sabrina,” he said in a nearly even voice. “Let me explain.” He reached a hand toward her, and she glared at him. Did he honestly think she would return the bottle to him? “I have been very ill, more than you can imagine and—”
She had no tolerance for his justifications and lifted the bottle as high as she could, holding it long enough for Mr. Stillman to understand her intent. His eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open right before she threw the bottle against the fireplace hearth. The brown glass shattered and a spray of brandy doused that part of the room, a few drops splashing far enough to catch her hemline.
She did not flinch as she glared at him, hands on her hips. “You ungrateful, dissolute, ape of a man!”
He stared at the mess on the floor, then turned frantic eyes in her direction. His mouth was open, but he had no words.
She, however, had plenty to say. “After all we have done for you, you not only defy my rules but you betray your own healing by going right back to the proverbial vomit that landed you in that alley in the first place!”
His cheeks were in high color as his expression tightened. “You gave me ale and one pathetic glass of sherry. I was dying!”
“My ale and my sherry given to you at my expense in my house,” she snapped, wishing she could yell louder. “How dare you throw all that away. How dare you spit in the face of our compassion!”
He stared at her another moment, then crumpled beneath her rage. The look in his eyes went from shocked and angry to scared and pleading. “I just needed a little bit to help me through the shakes and the d-delusions—I was going mad.”
“I should take you back to where I found you and retract the—” She stopped herself mere syllables away from saying she would retract Lord Damion’s payment on his debts. Being that close to revealing herself cooled her enough to think more rationally. She took a deep breath as the door flew open. She turned to see Joshua, his eyes wide as he ran into the room.
Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency) Page 11
