“The matter was mentioned, miss, in my presence,” he said. “The staff were as one in their indignation. They said you would never behave in so dastardly a manner.”
“Certainly not,” Alistair said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Who in his right mind could believe Miss Oldridge capable of devious behavior?”
Crewe gave one of his expressive little coughs.
“What is it, Crewe?” Alistair said. “Have you something to add?”
“Ahem. No, sir.”
“I believe, were Crewe less discreet, he would tell you my staff are certain I would never do anything I might be hanged for,” Miss Oldridge said. “This is true. I have always believed that anyone who must violate the law to achieve his purposes must lack either intelligence or imagination, probably both.”
“Those are words to make a man’s blood run cold,” Alistair said. In fact, what he saw in her blue eyes made him uneasy. “I begin to suspect, Miss Oldridge, that the world would be a safer place were you lacking in both articles.”
“I hope I am not lacking,” she said. “I should never stand a chance against you otherwise. While my conscience is clear on the score of your accident, I admit it was fortuitous. But I detect heavy weather bearing down upon me, which means I’ve upset you—and I did promise Dr. Woodfrey that we would keep you calm and rested.”
She gave him a quick smile, and Alistair, numskull that he was, felt cheated. He wanted more: the dancing light in her eyes, the whispery laughter.
And when he watched her depart, red-gold curls springing loose from their pins, hem dragging to one side, and hips swaying, he was not thinking about ways to succeed with the canal, upon which so much depended, but about the speediest means of luring her back.
He forgot altogether to wonder exactly what she meant by “fortuitous.”
MIRABEL decided she’d better not visit the patient again until the following day, when she’d had time to recover her common sense—and she must not forget to take Mrs. Entwhistle with her.
Mr. Carsington was not left solitary, however.
Her father went upstairs after dinner and stayed with their guest for a good while. When he returned to the library, he informed Mirabel and Mrs. Entwhistle that Mr. Carsington had fallen asleep while being enlightened regarding the differences between Linnaeus’s and Jussieu’s systems of botanical classification.
“He was vastly interested to learn that the one is founded on the sexes of plants, while the other takes into account the natural affinities,” Papa informed them. “Mr. Carsington made a witty remark regarding natural affinities, which I cannot recollect at the moment. He also drew an analogy…” Papa trailed off, his brows knitting. “I meant to mention the date palms. He has a cousin, a lady of unusual linguistic talents, who is trying to decipher the Rosetta stone, and this put me in mind of the Egyptian date palms. But he made me laugh, and I forgot, and then we spoke of something else, and by degrees, he fell asleep. Yet I do not think it is sufficiently restful. I do not like to tell Dr. Woodfrey his business, but I am surprised he did not prescribe a dose of laudanum.”
“I believe laudanum is not advised in cases of suspected concussion,” said Mrs. Entwhistle.
“It was only recently that Brown brought Jussieu into favor in England,” said Papa. “We were sadly isolated in our thinking. One must go abroad, you see, and seek other opinions. Captain Hughes, for instance.”
“What about Captain Hughes?” Mirabel said. “I cannot follow you at all, Papa.”
He gazed not at Mirabel but through her, with the faraway look she knew all too well. “The juices extracted from the seed pod of the poppy possess remarkable curative powers,” he said. “These properties have been remarked upon time and again, going back to Hippocrates himself. The Egyptians knew it as well, I am certain. Once they succeed in unlocking those secrets—and they are bound to, one of these days—what a vast store of knowledge will be opened up! I should like to meet his cousin.”
Mirabel looked blankly at Mrs. Entwhistle, who responded with a similarly uncomprehending expression.
Mirabel regarded her father. With a shake of his head, he came out of his musings. He walked to a bookshelf and plucked out a large volume.
“Papa?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Papa, you mentioned Captain Hughes a moment ago,” Mirabel said.
“Yes.” Her father started toward the door.
“Did you mention him to any particular purpose?”
“Oh, yes. Concussions. Perhaps he, too, thinks this does not fully explain. He would know better than I.”
Mirabel’s parent departed, leaving those behind mystified, as usual.
THE letters from Oldridge Hall, written by Miss Oldridge and signed by her father, reached their London destinations after midnight.
The arrival of express letters at odd hours was a common enough occurrence in Lord Hargate’s household. Though not a member of the ministry, he was active behind the scenes and sent and received nearly as many urgent messages as did Lord Liverpool, First Lord of the Treasury.
Consequently, the letter aroused no panic at Hargate House. Having passed the usual quiet Sunday, the earl and his lady were at home, in the latter’s boudoir. They were enjoying a lively dispute about their eldest offspring’s domestic affairs when the servant brought them the letter.
Upon seeing where it had come from, Lord Hargate merely raised his eyebrows and passed the missive to his wife to read, which she did, aloud.
When she had done, his lordship shrugged and refilled his wine goblet. “Only a sprained ankle. Confined to Oldridge Hall. It might have been worse.”
“I rather think,” said her ladyship, “it could not be better.”
THE missive from Oldridge Hall awakened far more consternation in Lord Gordmor’s breast, thanks to his sister.
Lady Wallantree had elected to spend a dull Sunday evening with her convalescing brother who, even when ill, was less tedious company than her husband. She was about to order her carriage brought round for the return home when the servant entered the parlor with the letter.
Express letters being very expensive, they were not frequently used outside military or political circles and seldom carried glad tidings. As a result, in less exalted households than those of prime ministers and Earls of Hargate, they tended to stir excitement, if not alarm.
Lady Wallantree had no intention of dying of curiosity. By now her family was asleep. Only a few servants would be sitting up waiting for her. She saw no reason to inconvenience herself for the sake of mere servants.
She no more valued her brother’s privacy than she did her servants’ or family’s comfort. After giving him two seconds to read the letter, she snatched it from him.
He sank back onto his chaise longue with a sigh and wondered why, of the two people in the world for whom the influenza held no terrors, one must be one hundred fifty miles away in Derbyshire and the other must be his sister.
“Perhaps you will be so good as to acquaint me with its contents when it is convenient, Henrietta,” Lord Gordmor said.
She read it aloud to him.
He was still trying to digest the news and decide how he felt about it, when she said, “I am very glad Carsington is not seriously injured, but I could wish for your sake he had ended in any other house but Oldridge Hall. Though Oldridge has signed it, the letter is in a woman’s hand.”
“I wouldn’t know, scarcely having a glimpse before it was torn—”
“I have a strong suspicion the woman is Oldridge’s daughter,” his sister continued. “The one who jilted William Poynton and led him to make such a fool of himself.” She pursed her lips and considered. “But that was before your time. You were still at school. She must be past thirty now, and those kinds of looks fade quickly. Not that she was a great beauty twelve years ago. She would never have taken at all—that apricot-colored hair and such singular manners, my dear. But who could overlook the fortune? That was why half the pee
rage threw their sons at her. Yes, Douglas, I know you will say your friend’s taste is impeccable, and he is incorruptible as well, like the rest of the family. But keep in mind that, even if Oldridge remarries—”
“Henrietta, what are you saying?” Lord Gordmor broke in crossly. “A few simple points, if you please, in a logical order. Recollect I have been ill, and my head is not strong.”
She gave him back the letter. “In plain terms, then: As soon as you are strong enough to travel, you must go to Derbyshire. I do not wish to alarm you, and I hope I am wrong, but I strongly suspect that both your friend Mr. Carsington and your canal are in very great danger.”
Nine
MIRABEL woke at two o’clock in the morning—the same time she’d awoken yesterday—and couldn’t get back to sleep. She lit a candle, flung on a dressing gown and slippers, and paced her bedroom for a while. This accomplished nothing.
At last she took up the candle, left her bedroom, and padded along to the guest wing.
The door to Mr. Carsington’s chamber was left ajar in case Crewe needed to summon help quickly. In a chair by the door a footman slumped, snoring steadily.
Mirabel crept past him into the bedroom, where a single candle burned.
Crewe rose as she entered. She set her candle on the mantel of the fireplace. The valet approached her.
“He’s all right, miss,” he murmured.
“You’re not,” she said in the same low tones.
Though the light was dim and wavering, she easily discerned the worry and weariness etched in the loyal servant’s countenance. She wondered how many nights, after Waterloo, he had kept watch over his master.
“I’m sure you’ve been worried to death about him,” she said. “I’ll wager you haven’t had a moment’s rest since getting word of the accident.”
Crewe denied feeling any fatigue or undue worry.
“You will be of little help to Mr. Carsington if you get no sleep this night,” she said. “An hour or two’s rest will do you good. I’ll keep watch in the meantime.”
The valet protested. Mirabel’s very sensible arguments—about his needing rest to be of full use to his master, and his being within easy call should any difficulties arise—fell on deaf ears. But when she gave her word of honor not to kill his master in his sleep, Crewe looked very shocked, stammered an apology—he never meant to imply any such thing and never dreamt it, for a minute—and meekly took himself into the adjoining room.
He left the connecting door open.
Mirabel settled into the chair by the bed and studied Crewe’s master.
During her discussion with his manservant, Mr. Carsington had got himself turned about. He now lay partly on his stomach, and the shape of the bedclothes outlining his body told her his injured foot had slipped from its pillow. She debated whether to waken the footman to help her turn the patient onto his back again. Before she could decide, she found herself recalling her father’s remarks about laudanum, Egyptians, and Captain Hughes.
What had led Papa to that sequence of thoughts?
He said Mr. Carsington’s sleep was not restful.
Mirabel rose and came nearer to the bed to study his face. It seemed peaceful enough, and strangely youthful, with his tousled hair falling over his brow. She could see the boy he must have been. He snored softly, rather like a lion purring, but it was uneven.
She linked her hands behind her back because she was dreadfully tempted to smooth his hair back from his face, as though he were that young boy, as though the gesture would be enough to soothe him.
The soft snoring stopped, and he shuddered.
Mirabel’s hands would not remain sensibly behind her back. She reached out and lightly brushed his hair back. She stroked his cheek.
He stirred and began to mumble. At first it was only incomprehensible strings of sounds. Then came a hoarse whisper: “Zorah. We must find her.”
More muttering. By degrees, Mirabel began to distinguish phrases here and there. Something about being sick. Something about butchers.
He began to toss and turn. “Get away…no…can’t look at it…vultures…I knew him…No, don’t talk. Never say. Didn’t see. Make a joke. Ha. Ha. Attached to it. Getting on so well together. Gordy, find her. Flesh wound. Zorah. She said. Get me away. Don’t let them.”
His voice scarcely rose above a murmur, but he was flailing about. She must stop him, or he’d tumble out of bed or otherwise harm himself.
She touched his shoulder. “Mr. Carsington,” she said gently, “please wake up.”
He jerked away and kicked at the bedclothes. “Can’t breathe. Get them off. Sick. Sick. God help us.” He threw himself toward the edge of the bed.
Mirabel flung herself across his chest.
He shuddered briefly, then stilled.
Mirabel waited, uncertain what to do. Had she truly calmed him, turned his sleeping mind elsewhere, or was it only a pause? Should she let him sleep or wake him? If he slept, he might return to the nightmare.
She listened to his breathing. Not slow. Not like peaceful sleep. She remembered what her father had said, how sure he’d been that Mr. Carsington had suffered a head injury at Waterloo. She recalled what she’d read of his actions in battle, and of what he’d endured afterward. He’d been believed dead and might have died in fact, if his friend Lord Gordmor hadn’t scoured the battlefield for him, through the night, among acres of corpses. Was this what the famous hero dreamt of?
He didn’t want to talk about the battle or hear about it. Perhaps in his place, she would feel the same. He could not wish to be reminded of what must have been the most horrendous experience of his life.
Everyone said it was a miracle he’d survived until he was found, many hours after the battle. It must have taken unimaginable courage and a will of iron. Not to mention a remarkably strong and resilient body.
It was this thought that brought her back to the present, to where she was, lying across the famously indestructible body.
His chest rose and fell under her, but now she became aware of more than its unsteady rise and fall.
He’d pushed away the bedclothes. His nightshirt had fallen open. She hadn’t thought about his state of undress. She’d simply acted to quiet him. Now she was conscious of the faint friction of her nightgown against his shirt, of the place where the flannel of her gown brushed his bare skin, of the edge of the shirt opening touching her cheek. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, and she was acutely aware now of the hardness and warmth under her, of the hurried, irregular rise and fall, a countertempo to the quickened, unsteady beat of her heart.
She felt again, as though it were happening now, his hands circling her waist and saw once more the intent golden gaze, the lurking smile.
If only…
She took a deep breath, and let it out, and told herself to get up. Cautiously, she lifted her head and looked at him…and found him looking back at her.
His eyes were open and dark but for the faint gleam of reflected candlelight.
Mirabel swallowed. “Bad dream,” she said.
“You had a bad dream?” His voice was a sleepy rumble. He smiled lazily, and his hands slid up to her hips.
His hands were so very warm, and as they stole up farther, her mind slowed.
She wanted to stop thinking entirely and let those long hands slide over her. She wanted to touch her lips to that sleepy smile….
Seduction, a voice called to her from far, far away.
It was the faint voice of her rapidly disappearing intellect. She didn’t want to call it back, but she’d had years of practice in overcoming such inclinations, in doing what had to be done, like it or not.
Swallowing a sigh, she wriggled away from the insidious hands, slid off the bed, and stood back out of reach. As though she were in any real danger. As though he would, if wide awake instead of half asleep and thinking of someone else—by name of Zorah, perhaps—reach for her.
“You had a bad dream,” she said.
/> “And you were comforting me,” he said.
She clenched her hands. “I tried to keep you from throwing yourself on the floor. You were thrashing about. I should have called for help, but it was quickest to—to—”
“Jump on me.” His mouth quivered.
Mirabel’s face burned, and she reacted instinctively, attacking from an unexpected quarter, as she’d learnt to do when cornered and made to defend herself. “Who is Zorah?”
His amusement vanished, and the atmosphere instantly thickened.
She knew she wasn’t to upset him, but she was too angry with circumstance, with fate, to behave sensibly. “You spoke her name more than once,” she persisted. “You wanted to find her. I take it she’s important.”
He raised himself up on the pillows. Though he did so without wincing, Mirabel knew it hurt. She could tell by the way his features hardened. She cursed her bad temper and self-pity and wayward tongue.
“Never mind,” she said. “It is none of my business. I panicked. And behaved stupidly. I should have let Crewe stay. He would have known what to do.”
Mr. Carsington looked about the dimly lit room. “Where is he?”
“I sent him to bed,” Mirabel said. “He looked so tired and worried.”
“Do you never sleep, Miss Oldridge?”
“No, I always prowl about the house in the dead of night, looking for unsuspecting gentlemen to leap upon.” She realized her dressing gown was falling open. Not that there was anything to see. Her sensible flannel nightgown left everything to the imagination.
Nonetheless, she drew the dressing gown closed and began tying the ribbons. “Not that we ever had any unsuspecting gentlemen here before,” she went on into the pulsing silence. “But if we had, I should have leapt upon them, too. So you are not to think there is anything out of the way about my behavior.”
“You are tying those ribbons into knots,” he said.
She looked down at her too-busy fingers. “Yes, well, I could be calmer, I daresay.”