by Louise Allen
Ivo found himself in an inn yard, unsteady on his feet and held upright by a large young man who smelt strongly of the stables. ‘Where—?’
‘The Pack Horse in Turnham Green. Do you want to lean on me as well? No? This way then.’
‘Who—?’
‘I am Jane Newnham. Ah, Landlord. I would like a private parlour, some hot water, brandy and the services of your best local doctor. My brother has been attacked by footpads,’ she added clearly, with a sharp jab in Ivo’s ribs, presumably so he paid attention to her story. They began to move again. ‘Excellent, thank you. This will do nicely.’
‘Why—?’
‘Because you have been stabbed, I think, and there may be other injuries and my knowledge of human anatomy is entirely theoretical so, although I do not think you are in mortal peril, it is best to make certain. Here we are. Do you want to sit down on this bench or lie on the sofa? It doesn’t look very comfortable and you might drip on it.’
‘I will sit.’
A miracle, I have uttered three words without being interrupted.
The groom deposited him on the bench with a thump.
Ivo bit back the things he felt inclined to say and waited for the lad to shamble out. ‘It appears I am in your debt Miss—is it Miss? Yes?—Newnham. But I confess I am puzzled. I seem to recall being dragged into your carriage and that there were two women in it. Now you appear to be unaccompanied.’
‘That was Billing. I put her out at the last inn and gave her the money to go home. She is my mother’s maid and she was driving me quite distracted, even before you joined us—and we had only driven from Mayfair. I do find disapproving people very wearing, don’t you? It is like being constantly rubbed on the soul with emery paper.’
From her speech and her clothes this was a lady. Therefore, she should not be out alone on the highway, however unusual and whimsical she might be. She should most definitely not be in an inn with a strange man. Ivo said so. Firmly.
‘Nonsense. I could hardly abandon you, now could I? And clearly you are a gentleman or you would not quibble about this. And I told the landlord that I was your sister and I do not know anyone in Turnham Green, so there is absolutely no cause to worry.’
Ivo reminded himself that, until a few weeks past, he had been an officer in his Majesty’s army, had been wounded far more severely than this in the past, did not appear to be concussed and therefore he was more than capable of summoning the authoritative manner necessary to detach this female. Only, if he did, then she would be alone and unescorted. Damn.
‘This sounds like the doctor arriving,’ Miss Newnham said brightly. ‘You are being positively heroic about your wounds, but I am sure he will have you feeling better soon.’
There was a tap at the door and a redheaded, be-freckled man in his late twenties came in and smiled at them. ‘I believe the gentleman has been attacked? I am glad to see you conscious, sir. My name is Jamieson.’ He appeared to be expecting some reaction because he added, ‘I know I do not look old enough, but I assure you that I am a fully qualified graduate of the medical school of Edinburgh University. Now, sir, let us remove your upper garments. I imagine it will require some care.’ He advanced purposefully on Ivo.
‘Doctor Jamieson, there is a lady in the room.’
‘That is quite all right, dear,’ his rescuer said soothingly.
Dear?
‘My brother is being unduly shy. I am sure that between us we can remove his coat and shirt and so forth with less pain to him than if you attempt it alone.’
So forth?
‘Of course, ma’am. It is hardly as though we need to remove your brother’s nether garments, now is it? Ha-ha! At least, not yet.’
Over my dead body are my breeches coming off with this female in the room, Ivo thought grimly.
On the other hand, his shoulder appeared to be infested by devils wielding tiny pitchforks and his ribs were aching as though he had been kicked by a horse, not merely by four brainless louts. He knew from past experience that this process was easier if the patient was relaxed, so he nodded. ‘As you think best, Doctor.’
Miss Newnham was, to do her justice, both gentle and deft and did not fuss about, which usually ended up causing more pain. His coat came off eventually, his waistcoat was simple by comparison, his neckcloth was already untied and after five minutes he was down to his shirt. The makeshift pad that Miss Newnham had applied to his shoulder fell away and he saw she had used something with good lace on it. He would have to replace that, it was clearly beyond repair.
Miss Newnham, who appeared to have no inhibitions whatsoever, was pulling the shirt out of the back of his breeches, the doctor, thank goodness, was tackling the front. He dragged it over Ivo’s head and stepped back.
‘A military man, I assume,’ Jamieson remarked after half a minute’s steady scrutiny from narrowed eyes. ‘You will have a matching pair of shoulders now, sir. What was this one?’ He touched cold fingertips to the old scar above Ivo’s right collarbone.
‘Splinter from a gun carriage that was hit by shot,’ he said tersely and glanced down to the left as a line of blood tickled, creeping down his chest. He could almost feel Miss Newnham’s gaze on his back. The effort not to move made sore muscles tense painfully.
‘If you could arrange for some warm water to be brought, ma’am?’ Jamieson asked.
That, thankfully, sent the woman out of the room. A maid came in with the water a few minutes later and Ivo closed his eyes, sent his consciousness as far away as he could and submitted to the doctor’s probing.
‘Nothing broken,’ Jamieson said eventually. ‘I’ve cleaned out that shoulder wound—not deep, nothing critical hit—and put two stitches in it. The ribs are badly bruised, but I am not a believer in tight bandaging so I’ve not strapped them. Your back will be black and blue before much longer, but there are no serious marks in the kidney region. Everything all right down below?’
Ivo had done what he could to protect down below. There would be bruises across his thighs and shins, but that was all.
‘Perfectly,’ he managed to say. Reaction was beginning to set in now, he could feel his overstretched muscles and nerves quivering with the need to tremble.
‘Here is a clean shirt. Let me help you into it.’
That was almost too much, but he hung on and the doctor did not attempt to tuck it in. Somewhere there was that strange scratch-scritch sound he had noticed in the chaise. His ears must be ringing from a blow at some point in the fight.
‘Now, time we got you into a bed, I believe,’ Jamieson said.
‘My wallet. Should be in my inside coat pocket.’
The other man held up the coat, searched the pockets. ‘Nothing here, I’m afraid. They must have got it when they attacked you.’
‘I have taken rooms for us,’ Miss Newnham said from behind him. The scritching sound had stopped. ‘Do not worry, brother dear, my reticule was quite safe, so we have no cause to worry about funds.’
Uno, dos, tres... Eyes closed, Ivo counted to ten in Spanish in his head. ‘Have you been in this room throughout?’
‘Of course, dear. Now, what do we owe you, Doctor?’
He told her, Ivo made a mental note, there was the clink of coins and then, oddly, the sound of tearing paper.
‘You might like that,’ she said.
‘Why, that is... Marvellous! Thank you, ma’am. What talent. Good day to you, sir. Rest and remain in bed for a day or so if you become at all feverish. You’ve got enough scars on you to know by now how to treat wounds sensibly, I imagine.’
The door closed behind Jamieson as Miss Newnham came around to face Ivo. ‘Your room is just at the head of the stairs on the right. Shall I get one of the grooms to help you?’
‘What were you doing in here?’ he snapped. ‘And what did you give the doctor besides money? And, yes, I can manage
a flight of stairs by myself.’ He hoped. ‘Better than being dropped down it by that clumsy lump of a groom.’
Miss Newnham walked away behind him, then came back with a slim, flat book in her hand and flipped it open, holding it for him to see. There was a pencil sketch of the room, of his naked back, of Jamieson bending over him. It was rapid, vivid and anatomically accurate. Shocking, in fact, for a young woman to have produced. ‘I did a quick portrait of him, as well. That is what I gave him.’
‘Was that your pencil I could hear? Were you drawing in the carriage?’
In answer she turned back a page in the sketchbook. There he was, slumped in the corner of the chaise, eyes closed, hair in a mess, clothing disordered. She turned back another page to a portrait of a discontented female, tight-lipped and sour. ‘That is Billing. You can see why I sent her home. She was sending me into a decline, so goodness knows what effect she would have had on you in your weakened condition.’
Chapter Two
The man she had rescued looked at the portrait, then at Jane. ‘She was your chaperon,’ he said, in accents at odds with his battered, disreputable, appearance.
‘She was my gaoler. Never tell me you are shocked? You do not look like someone who would be scandalised by such a thing as a perfectly competent woman travelling alone.’
‘You are not alone,’ he pointed out. ‘And I must look like a complete thatch-gallows.’ He pushed himself to his feet and stood, swaying slightly.
‘I am not certain why anyone would want to thatch a gallows, but I can assure you that I can tell from your voice and your clothing—to say nothing of your concern for the proprieties—that you are a gentleman,’ Jane reassured him.
It was not a lie, he did make her feel safe for some reason. She put one hand on his arm. Even through the coarse linen of the shirt she had borrowed from one of the waiters, he felt cold. And hard—although she could feel the faintest tremor beneath her palm. He was exhausted, she guessed, and in pain, and the loss of blood cannot have helped. ‘You should go up to bed and rest now.’
He seemed to consider it, then nodded. At least she was dealing with a reasonable man and not a foolish one who felt he had to pretend to be invincible in front of a female. She gathered up his discarded clothing and opened the door. ‘Just one flight of stairs to manage. The door is open. If you drop all your clothes but that shirt outside, I will have them cleaned and repaired.’
He nodded again and made his way out. She left him to it, conscious of his pride, but watched from the foot of the stairs. ‘What is your name?’
‘Ivo,’ he said, then stopped on the next step up without looking back at her. ‘Major Lord Merton.’ He took two more dogged steps up, then stopped again, one big, scarred hand on the rail. ‘Or, no, I keep forgetting: Lord Kendall.’
‘But the Earl of Kendall died just a few months ago...’ Her brain caught up with her tongue. ‘I do beg your pardon—that was your father?’
‘Yes.’ He kept climbing.
Jane opened her mouth, then closed it firmly. The Earl would not want to stand there discussing his titles on the stairs or satisfying her curiosity about what the grandson, and now heir, of a marquess was doing fighting ridiculous odds in an alehouse.
She waited until the door closed behind him, then climbed the stairs and sat three steps down from the top, waiting for there to either be the sound of about six foot of man hitting the floor or for the door to open and the rest of his clothes to appear.
There was some thumping, but no thudding, and then a pair of boots and a heap of clothing were put outside and it was closed again, very firmly. Jane scooped up everything and carried the bundle down. Out of habit she shook each item out and checked the pockets and found only a handkerchief of plain, good linen and a crumpled bill from an inn dated a week before. She set that aside. Then, as she folded the coat, something crackled. Inside the breast pocket was a folded paper, creased and marked with dirty finger marks. It was unsealed. She smoothed it out and tucked it, along with the inn account, into the pocket in the front of the sketchbook that she used to keep notes and spare pieces of paper flat. Neither looked important and she could replace them in his pocket when the maid had finished setting the clothes to rights.
She found a chambermaid and arranged for whatever washing, pressing and brushing could be managed, then ordered herself a pot of tea in the tiny private parlour.
She was not going to fuss over Lord Kendall, she decided as she sipped. Nor, unusually in her experience, did he appear to expect her to do so. Her father and brother always wanted to be made much of when they were ill. Even a mild cold in the head was grounds for medicines, stream infusions, large fires in the bedchamber and much gruel.
In this case she had organised a hot brick for the bed, a jug of water and some willow bark powder for the bedside and His Lordship’s clothes would be returned to proper order—that, surely, was all that would be required of her.
If he was prepared—and able—to escort her to Batheaston in return for his rescue, then she would be happy to accept, because he was certain to be more entertaining than Billing and he would save her from any male annoyances on the journey.
Unless Lord Kendall proved to be a male annoyance himself... She pondered the question, adding sugar to her tea as she did so, aware that her own immediate instincts might not be reliable. But his manner had held nothing of either the predator, or the rake, and she was quite well aware that, although she was perfectly presentable, she was no beauty to tempt a man to try unwelcome flirting.
Goodness, but Melissa would be delighted with news of this accidental meeting, although Jane rather suspected that Lord Kendall was not good-looking enough to satisfy her fantasies. There was nothing wrong with his height or figure; his hair—and he had all of it—was thick and dark and his teeth seemed good. But he was not what one would consider a handsome man, exactly. He was too...too male for elegance. His brows were too heavy, his mouth set too hard, his jaw looked stubborn and his nose was not straight. The heroes of Melissa’s novels tended to be elegant, blond and modelled on Grecian statues—with the addition of clothing, of course.
Jane picked up her sketchbook and studied her drawings. He did have admirably defined muscles which would be both educational, and a pleasure, to draw in more detail. Although that pursuit of accurate detail was what had landed her in trouble in the first place...
I am an artist, I must not be hidebound by convention, I must be prepared to suffer for my art, she told herself. If drawing Lord Kendall naked could be defined as suffering, exactly. As if I could ever pluck up the courage to ask him to pose in any degree of undress.
* * *
When the clock struck six Jane decided to order her dinner and to send one of the waiters up to see whether Lord Kendall was awake and, if so, whether he wanted anything to eat. The parlour appeared to have no bell, so she opened the door. ‘Oh!’
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Newnham.’ The Earl stepped back so that her nose was no longer virtually in his neckcloth. ‘I was about to knock.’
‘You have your clothes back,’ she said.
Idiot, of course he has!
‘As you see.’ A fastidious valet would probably shudder, but the inn staff had done an excellent job and had even managed to iron the neckcloth into some semblance of crispness.
‘Would you like to come in and sit down? I was just about to find someone and order dinner. It is early, I know, but I have to confess to feeling decidedly hungry.’
‘Thank you.’ He stepped into the room just as a maid appeared behind him, looking harassed and wiping her hands on her apron.
‘The missus says, sorry the bell isn’t there, but a gentleman in his cups fell over and pulled it out of the ceiling last week and would you and the gentleman be wanting anything in the way of dinner, miss? Only the London stage is due in about ten minutes and the Mail half an hour after that and
the kitchen will be in a right bustle when they get in.’
‘We were just about to order. Do you have an appetite, my... Ivo dear?’
He gave her a look down that not-straight nose. ‘I do indeed, Jane dear.’
‘Well, we’ve got game pie or a roast fowl or there’s some collops of veal in a cream sauce. And oxtail soup to start and an apple pie and cream.’
‘Everything, if you please,’ said His Lordship. ‘And send in the cellar man.’
‘Should you be drinking wine or spirits if you have had a blow to the head?’ Jane enquired. ‘I am not nagging,’ she said hastily when she got The Look again. ‘Merely concerned that you do not throw a fever, because that would hold us up.’ She sat down at the table to demonstrate her lack of desire to fuss over him.
‘Us? I was not aware that there was an us.’ Lord Kendall drew out a chair and sat opposite, both hands flat on the table like a man ready to jump up and leave at any moment.
Jane found herself studying the grazes across the knuckles, the neatly trimmed nails, the tendons and veins, the plain gold signet ring, and jerked her attention away. This was no time to wonder about making a series of studies of hands.
‘You have no money, I do. If I had not rescued you, goodness knows what would have happened to you. As a result of that rescue I am without my maid. You could escort me to Batheaston.’
‘It would be scandalous for you to travel with an unrelated man. If I had any confidence that I could ride that distance just now, then I would offer to escort you on horseback and you could hire a maid to travel with you in the carriage. As it is, the option of staying here together until I am strong enough to ride is an even more outrageous proposition.’
‘You are very honest about your strength,’ she remarked, intrigued. ‘Most men would pretend they were perfectly capable, whatever the truth of the matter.’
‘If we encounter trouble and my right arm is not strong enough to use a pistol—not that we have one—or otherwise deal with an attacker, then I would have put my self-esteem above your safety.’ He studied her for a long moment. ‘Are you acquainted with many gentlemen?’
