Lord Harry's Folly, page 21
part #4 of Historical Regency Romances Series
Hetty whipped her foil under his, and the suddenness of the impact, at the same instant as his attention wavered, jerked his blade from his fingers and sent it flying to the ground.
What a damned fool you are, he thought dispassionately. He felt the pressure of the boy’s blade against his chest.
She’d done it, she’d actually done it. You’ve won, you’ve won. She stood poised forward, her weight on her right leg, her foil extended its full length, the tip against her enemy’s heart. Why does he not say something? Why does he not plead for his life? The glazed shock that had held her in sway loosed its grip on her vision, and she stared at him. He stood quietly before her and she could see no fear in his dark eyes.
The earl of March forced himself to hold his place, even as he shouted, “For God’s sake, Jason, jerk away his foil.”
The marquess made no sign that he’d even heard the earl’s words. He couldn’t be certain why he made no move. There was something in the boy’s eyes that held him.
Hetty felt the powerful, single purpose of her mind begin to fall away from her, and in that instant, she saw herself as she used to be. She saw Henrietta Rolland before she’d discovered the marquess’s hand in her brother’s death. She’d been hollow with grief, hollow with the touch of death. Still, death had not claimed her, and she had savored the full consciousness of life, even in those months when she’d felt most alone. It had seemed so simple to her to plan the marquess’s execution, his death a just retribution, a full payment for the grief he’d brought to her. Yet, he stood before her now proud, arrogant but alive, just as she was alive. She realized that she’d used the idea of his death to assuage her own grief. But to run her foil through his heart, to rob him of life, to actually bring about another human being’s death, was beyond her. Her single-minded hatred, her pact of vengeance crumbled.
She gasped aloud, jerked back the foil from his chest, and clasping it in both hands, plunged it into the frozen ground with all her remaining strength. She jerked her fingers away from it as if it were evil.
She’d thrust it deep enough so that the handle swung back and forth, its gentle hissing sounding softly in the silence.
“Damn you, I can’t kill you! Oh God, Damien, forgive me, but I can’t do it. I can’t do it.” Her cry was filled with the deep pain of her spirit and the growing agony in her body. She looked into his face, the face she had hated even in her dreams. His face grew distorted, twisting into a mask of death Damien’s face. “I can’t kill you,” she said, her voice racked with sobs, wrenching cries tearing from her throat. Her body was taking her over now, closing off any control from her mind. Searing pain tore through her side and she doubled over, clutching her arms about her. She felt hot stickiness on her hands and looked down in dumb surprise at her blood-covered fingers. She looked wildly about her, but saw only blurred images. She heard loud voices, yet they came to her ears as unintelligible sounds. Her knees buckled beneath her and she fell heavily to the frozen earth, her head striking an outjutting rock.
Blackness flooded her.
Chapter Twenty-five
The marquess was at the boy’s side in an instant, his hands tearing at the blood-soaked shirt. He had to stop the bleeding. Damn, but he wasn’t going to be Monteith’s murderer. He acted on instinct, not allowing himself to think about the incredible scene in which he had just played a part. He ripped open the shirt and tugged at the buckskin breeches to bare the wound. It was not bare skin that met his eyes, but a tight-fitting muslin wrap hemmed with blue ribbon. He had torn it apart before the significance of the garment hit him. Though side, ribs, and belly were covered with blood, the inward curving to a slender waist, the soft smoothness of the white skin hit his brain like a stroke of lightning. No, no, there had to be a mistake, he wouldn’t believe this, but he had to. He stared at that blue ribbon, at that white soft skin.
Oh God, Lord Harry Monteith was a girl.
“Jason, how badly is he wounded?”
In that instant, the marquess made a decision and acted on it. He jerked the shirt back over the girl’s side. “It’s bad, Julien. Quickly, give me your handkerchief. Harry, your neck cloth. We must stop the bleeding.”
“Mis Lord Harry. Dear God, Lord Harry.” The marquess glanced up at the valet’s frantic face. God, the man had nearly given all away. He looked Pottson straight in the eye and said firmly, “Lord Harry will be all right. Don’t say anything now. He will survive, I swear it to you.”
“Aye, your grace,” Pottson said, looking from his mistress’s bloody-soaked shirt to the silent warning in the marquess’s dark eyes. It seemed the marquess had taken the matter out of his hands. Why? Pottson didn’t know, but now there was nothing he could do. He stared down at his mistress. He felt helpless and paralyzed.
The marquess used his body as a shield as he pressed the wadded handkerchief against the wound. “Now your neck cloth, Harry, so I can bind Julien’s handkerchief.” Gently, he slipped the wide band of material under her back and knotted it over the pad.
He rose, lifting her in his arms. “Julien, I require your carriage. I very nearly killed the boy and now I intend to take care of him.” He turned to the valet. “You will accompany me to Thurston Hall.”
“Now, see here, your grace.” Sir Harry stepped forward, uncertain of what he should do, but knowing that somehow he was the only one left to do anything. He was Lord Harry’s second. Lord Harry was surely his responsibility. But the world had taken a faulty turn. Lord Harry had disarmed the marquess. He could have killed him but he’d not done it, and that made no sense. Lord Harry’s foil was still gently swaying back and forth in the early morning breeze. And now the marquess was insisting upon taking care of Lord Harry, who hated his guts. None of it made any sense.
“No, Harry,” the earl said quietly. He looked searchingly into his friend’s eyes, then said evenly, “Lord Oberlon will do what is best, Harry. You may depend upon his word. I would trust him with my life. Surely you can trust your friend’s life to him.”
As Pottson threw the heavy greatcoat over Hetty, the earl asked, “Thurston Hall, Jason? It will take you an hour and a half to reach. Shouldn’t you come back to London instead?”
“I know how long it takes,” the marquess said, meeting the earl’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Once the bleeding is stopped, it makes no difference whether Monteith is abed in London or at Thurston Hall. It is better for the lad to be out of London.”
“You will keep us informed of his progress, Jason?”
“You both may depend upon it. Now, we must be off. I would cover as many miles as possible before the lad regains consciousness.”
“But a doctor,” Sir Harry said. “Lord Harry needs a doctor. The best doctors are in London.” No one paid Sir Harry any mind as he trailed after the marquess who was carrying his friend as gently as he would a babe in his arms.
Jason Cavander turned as he stepped into the carriage. “Don’t worry, Harry. I suffered a like wound several years back and I assure you that I will provide Monteith the best care.” He mounted the carriage steps, and said over his shoulder, “Julien, you will see to Monteith’s horse, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry,” the earl said. He took Harry’s arm and drew him away.
“Now you,” Jason Cavander said to Pottson. “What is your name?”
“Pottson, your grace,” he said, moving quickly to the carriage door. Lord Oberlon lowered his voice, for he had no wish that even Silken hear his words. “Now, Pottson, what is the young lady’s name, if you please?”
Pottson stared vacantly at his unconscious mistress pressed close to the marquess’s chest. His promise to her rang clear in his mind, yet, he knew at the same time that all had changed. What the devil was he to do?
“Out with it, Pottson. Don’t you see that I must know everything now if we are to pull through this mess without a scandal that would rock all of London? What is the girl’s damned name?”
“She’s Miss Henrietta Rolland, your grace.” Oh gawd, what would happen now? She’d kill him, Pottson knew it. He’d betrayed her, yet what could he do?
Henrietta Rolland, he thought blankly. That lovely young lady at the Ranleaghs’ ball who’d fascinated him and who’d liked him very much as well until she’d learned who he was. Sir Archibald’s daughter, Jack’s sister she’d left Sir Archibald’s house rather than dine with him. And the dowdy female at his aunt Melberry’s soiree who’d made his eyes cross just to look at her, yet she’d taunted him and mocked him until until she’d realized that to continue just made him all the more curious. Then she’d become a vulgar, obnoxious twit. And as Lord Harry she’d turned her attention to Melissande, she’d even taunted him that he wasn’t enough of a man for his mistress. A girl, no, a young lady of quality had said that to him. He didn’t understand any of it. Why the devil did she hate him? Had she assumed the identity of a young gentleman just to kill him? It was fantastic, utterly without sense to him. He pulled himself together. “Ride with Silken. I will see to her. Dammit, man, go now.”
He settled her in his arms and yelled out the carriage window, “Spring’em, Silken! If they’re blown, we’ll change them at Smithfield. Hurry, I want to be at Thurston Hall in an hour.”
Silken took his master at his word, and Lord Oberlon clutched her more tightly to his chest to keep her steady as the carriage lurched and swayed over the rutted ground. He gently pulled back the greatcoat that covered her and carefully eased up her shirt. The wadded handkerchief was nearly soaked with blood. He placed his fingers atop the wound and pressed down. He tried to cradle her as best he could with his free hand, and drew the greatcoat over her.
He stared down into her pale, still face. Henrietta was the beauty of the family, Louisa had said. His eyes followed the slender column of her neck to the firm smooth chin, a stubborn chin, he thought, bloody stubborn and determined. Just look at all she’d done. He looked closely at the high cheekbones, the straight, proud nose, the thick, fair lashes lying in wet spikes on her cheeks. How strange that looking down at her now, everything made sense the myriad parts he had thought about so fancifully now fit perfectly together. She had Jack’s blond hair. Curling ringlets were working themselves loose from the black ribbon at her neck, and the thick pomade no longer held the curls back from her forehead. Were she conscious, he knew her eyes would be as light and pure a blue as the summer sky. He also knew she would stare at him with contempt and hatred. She would mock him. She would be more arrogant than he himself had ever been at her age. But she hadn’t killed him. She’d pulled up. He could still see the foil as it swung gently back and forth in the early morning breeze.
I think you were born a fool and will most certainly leave this world an equal fool, he told himself, shaking his head at his blindness.
It was often said that the clothes made the man. He was now inclined to believe, rather, that one saw what one expected to see. Lord Monteith dressed as a gentleman, talked like a gentleman and partook in all the gentleman’s sports. Everyone had accepted him as such. Now, gazing down at her undeniably female face, he was forced to admit with rueful admiration that she had pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Even Melissande. He laughed aloud at that. Melissande accepting all the flattery, the riding costume, the mare. It was marvelous, by God, bloody unbelievable and he’d been taken in like all the rest.
Ah, but why had she hated him so much as to force a duel upon him? Why Jack’s sister, in particular? It made no sense to him. He could bring Pottson into the carriage with him and demand the reason. Yet, somehow, he wanted to hear from her own lips why she’d planned and executed this outrageous charade. He realized, too, his hand covered with her blood, that his most pressing concern wasn’t to discover her motives, but rather to save her life.
The miles pounded by. He began to grow concerned that she didn’t regain consciousness. Minutes ago they’d bowled past the signpost for Helderton, a small village not many miles from the halfway point to Smithfield. He gazed down at her again and saw for the first time a dark purplish bruise forming over her temple. She must have struck her head when she fell. He quickly laid his hand over her breast to feel for her heartbeat. It was, he thought, rapid but steady. A blow on the head could keep her from regaining consciousness. He prayed silently that it wasn’t serious.
He found himself wondering if he was not a coward. Had he hidden her identity from the others to protect his own reputation? By God, who would want it known that he’d been challenged to a duel by a girl? That she’d managed to have him at her mercy, the tip of her foil against his heart? Was he, in fact, endangering her life to keep himself from being a laughingstock?
He looked up as the carriage drew to a halt in the yard of the Red Rose Inn, in the center of Smithfield.
Silken’s small, pointed face soon appeared at the carriage window. “The cattle are winded, your grace.”
“Change ‘em, quickly, Silken. Five minutes, no more.” As soon as Silken had bustled away to search out the ostler, Pottson scratched lightly on the carriage door to gain the marquess’s attention.
“Is Miss Hetty all right, your grace? Please, sir, she’ll live, won’t she?”
“Yes, Pottson. The bleeding has stopped. When she fell, she hit her head on a rock, and it’s that keeps her from consciousness. Now, what is it you want to say?”
“Miss Hetty wrote two letters, your grace. One to Sir Archibald and the other to Sir John. If something happened to Miss Hetty, I was to give the letters to her maid. You see, your grace, Miss Hetty always has luncheon with Sir Archibald at precisely twelve o’clock. If she’s not there, he’ll miss her. There’ll be hell to pay.”
“Damnation. Well, it must be dealt with. No, be quiet, Pottson, I must think.” He stared down at the unconscious girl in his arms. “I’ve got it. Listen, Pottson. You’ll rent a hack from the ostler and return to London immediately. Tell Miss Rolland’s maid to inform Sir Archibald that Miss Rolland has been invited by my sister, Lady Alicia Warton, to spend several days with her at Thurston Hall. She will then accompany you to Thurston Hall by this evening if possible, Pottson. I shall attend to my sister. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your grace. Lady Alicia Warton.”
“You may ask my butler, Rabbell, in Berkeley Square, the directions to Thurston Hall. Here,” the marquess added, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. “This should be enough money. You must pull it off correctly, Pottson, there is much at stake. You know it as well as I do.”
“I know, your grace, I know. It was a mad scheme, but once Miss Hetty had the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her. I couldn’t blame her, your grace. After all, her brother”
The marquess interrupted him. “No, don’t tell me any more. Go now, there’s no time to lose. Don’t forget, Lady Alicia Warton. I fancy she and Miss Henrietta Rolland are going to become bosom pals.”
The marquess thought about Sir Archibald and his general vague perceptions of his family, and decided that his plan was likely to work. Moreover, Sir Archibald wouldn’t question an invitation from Lady Alicia Warton. He must remember to write to his sister this very evening, and warn her not to appear in London.
The marquess lifted her shirt again and saw with dismay that his hand was covered with her blood. The wound was bleeding again. He shouted to Silken to bring him several very clean napkins from the inn.
Gently, he laid her on the opposite seat and unfastened the soaked handkerchief.
He winced at the raw wound, remembering all too clearly the unbearable pain he’d suffered when he’d accidentally been run through the shoulder by a school friend, George Pulmondy. Strange, he thought, that he remembered George’s name, for he hadn’t heard a thing about him in years.
He didn’t let Silken spring the horses until he’d fashioned a new bandage from the clean napkins and settled her again against his chest. She was so bloody slight. How could anyone have ever believed her a young man? And just look at that smooth white jaw. That soft white flesh, the thick lashes, a shade darker than her blond hair. And where were any whiskers? Not in this lifetime, that was for certain.
Fools, they’d all been fools. Sir Harry, Monteith’s best friend, had never suspected. Julien St. Clair hadn’t suspected. None of them had.
He found himself impatiently gazing out the carriage window for familiar landmarks that would tell him they were drawing close to Thurston Hall. He had never greatly cared for the rambling mansion with its forty bedrooms and ghostly draped ballroom, yet when he saw the entrance to the park, lined with naked-branched lime trees, it was the most welcome sight he’d ever seen. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when the carriage drew to a jolting halt in front of the great pillared front entrance.
Silken jumped nimbly down from the box and jerked open the carriage door. “Is he still alive? Aye, I see that he is. Can I help your grace with the young gentleman?”
“I can manage,” the marquess said as he gently carried the still unconscious Henrietta Rolland up the deep-inlaid marble steps. He’d realized for the past hour that he would be the one to care for her, no other. He couldn’t even let his servants know, no one must know that the young gentleman was a young lady. Jesus, he couldn’t believe this. What if she died? No, he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He pictured again the instant when his foil sliced into her side. It made him shudder. And she’d closed her mind to the pain she’d wanted to kill him so much. Yet she hadn’t, when she’d disarmed him, she hadn’t killed him.
Silken reached the great oak front doors a few steps ahead of the marquess and soundly thwacked the knocker. Croft, the butler at Thurston Hall since before the marquess’s birth, inched the door open and looked vaguely out into the gray winter morning.
The marquess eyed his butler. “Open the door, damn you, Croft. You’re bloody drunk again, you miserable sot. Just look at you, your eyes are so bloodshot, you can scarce make out that I’m your master and I’ll boot your butt to the next county. Damn you, hurry.” Croft, striving desperately for dignity, weaved about noticeably in the doorway.
