A Passionate Endeavor (3 page)

“But Father…”

“NO, I say. I forbid it.”

Charlotte gave a cautioning glance to her
brother as she moved to touch her father’s shoulder. “Father, do
not exert yourself. We are all in perfect agreement,” she said
again, as she gave her brother a nod toward the door.

James snapped his unread book shut and
stalked toward the exit.

Upon James’s departure, their father pulled
Charlotte into his lap. “Charlotte, I am grateful to the Good Lord
for giving me you. At least one of my children is levelheaded, with
enough intelligence for ten siblings.”

“But no beauty.”

“Fishing are you? That is unlike my
Charlotte. Beauty does not save lives, nor take care of the less
fortunate. It is what is inside your mind that matters, not a good
complexion and sparkling wit.”

Charlotte’s soul constricted. Fishing had
never been good in these waters. And for good reason. She knew the
answer by looking in the tiny cracked looking glass in her small
chamber above stairs. Her father had just confirmed, as he always
did, the truth. She was as plain and bookish as ever. She was too
small, her eyes were a nondescript gray and too far apart. At least
her freckles had faded, except the one under her eye. Her only
points of pride were her long neck, delicate ears, and tiny
ankles—areas others never noticed or cared a wit about.

It was only that she had not minded being
plain so much before, really. Well, maybe not too much—except when
Mr. Cox had stopped calling, and perhaps worse yet, when Alexandre
had not responded to the letters. But Elinor Dashwood had taught
her all about patience and its reward.

Lord Huntington had instigated something
altogether different. Something that was sure to lead to dashed
hopes yet again.

It was his favorite time of day, the hour
before dawn. As a child he would slip into his oldest clothes,
sneak through the kitchens for yesterday’s baked remnants, and head
into the fields or streams, fishing tackle in hand. More often than
not, he would end up side by side with the laborers to make hay,
harvest the grains, or oversee the livestock. It was the one time
he had been happy here. He looked down at his useless leg. At least
he was feeling better—maybe still feverish and tired, but not
exhausted to the bone nor plagued by hallucinations. Yes, it would
be a few days before he could contemplate a predawn jaunt. But,
perhaps a trip to the window?

A knock sounded at his door, and before he
could respond, his sister flew into the room.

“Oh, you
are
home!” Rosamunde said,
running toward the bed. “Stevens had me woken early with the news.”
She hugged him, and his throat tightened as he grasped her thin
back through her nightdress.

She pulled back. “You are a scoundrel for not
sending word. I would have waited up for you,” she said, as her
wide green eyes, so much like his own, filled with tears. “Oh, I am
so glad you are here. I have missed you so.”

“And, I you.”

“Still the barefaced charming liar, I see,”
she said, laughing until she looked at his bandaged leg on top of
the down coverlet before Nicholas could cover it with a sheet. “But
what is this? Are you wounded?” Her face paled.

“I’m afraid I made the mistake of cracking
it,” he said as he reached for her long brown braid, which snaked
over her shoulder. “At least that is the opinion of our new
resident doctor and his nurse, although I must say I came to the
same conclusion within moments of having my horse shot out from
under me.”

“Oh, Nicholas, not Nimrod!”

“You show much compassion for my horse, I
see,” he said, forcing a lopsided attempt at a grin. “And little
for my poor leg.”

“You are as wretched as ever. Don’t try to
pretend you didn’t love that horse. Father gave him to you.”
Rosamunde snatched her braid from his hand when he tried to tickle
her nose with the end of it.

“Yes. I thought I would never `earn’ him.”
“It was the first time he went against the wishes of Her Grace. You
have to give him that,” she said.

“Yes. And you paid dearly for that too, as I
recall.” He grasped her hands, forcing her to lie next to him on
the bed, his shoulder offered as a hollow for her head. Stroking
her small head brought a remembered feeling of love.

“Let us not dwell on the past,” she said,
snuggling against him. “I have good news. Did Stevens tell you that
Father seems to be recovering a bit? When I wrote to you, I was
sure the letter would find you too late. I am so glad you are come.
Will you stay?”

“At least until this blasted leg has healed,”
he said. “I am going to miss all the wild celebrations in London
when old Boney is routed, as he is sure to be shortly. I will miss
all the cakes and champagne after eating all that mud for so many
months.”

“Well, I have at least one good thing you can
look forward to, as well as one more bad thing.” He stopped
stroking her hair. “Yes? The bad news first, if you please.”

“
Mother
has invited a Lady Susan and
her grandmother for a visit. She is quite… unusual, and of course
an heiress. Perfect for Edwin, according to Her Grace,” she said.
“At least you will have me and my dear friend Louisa to buffer the
attentions that might turn toward you, if my guess is correct. The
actual heir will prove more attractive to that lady than the
spare.”

“Her Grace will be doubly delighted then to
learn of my arrival,” he said, one brow arched. “I shall have to
try not to become an impediment to Edwin’s future good fortune,” he
continued. “And the good?”

“My favorite mare, Phoenix, is in foal—due in
a month’s time. She is a dream to ride, and I have decided that her
first progeny will be my homecoming gift to you.”

Before he could reply, a knock sounded.
“Enter,” he called out, as Rosamunde scurried to her feet, and
smoothed her gown.

The diminutive Dr. Kittridge entered, along
with his daughter. Before she looked away from him, Nicholas
noticed dark circles cupping her large gray eyes. At least now he
could focus on her face. Last night seemed to have happened in a
sort of delirious daze. He could not remember much. Except he did
recall that her delicate hands, clasped before her now, had touched
most of the bare skin of the lower half of his body—and she had
smelled like the fields of lavender he had seen in France.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you, my lord,
Lady Rosamunde,” said the doctor, bowing.

“No need to be sorry.”

“Are you feeling better, my lord?” asked Dr.
Kittridge.

“Much. In fact, I must go to my father now
that I have rested. It is why I am here, after all.”

“His Grace would not want you to be moved in
your condition, just yet. Your leg needs to be in a raised position
and immobile for many weeks.”

“Sir, I was the unwilling recipient of your
daughter’s cunning maneuvers last night to keep me confined, but
not so this morning, when I have sufficiently recovered my senses,”
Nicholas said, fashioning an easy smile.

“But, my lord—” Miss Kittridge began.

“Please offer me a dressing gown and
slippers, Miss Kittridge, not arguments,” Nicholas interrupted. “It
is fruitless, you know. I will not be put off.” Instantly, he
regretted his words. He didn’t want to offend her. After all, she
had been quite gentle and kind to him last night. And whether it
was her care or luck, he did feel better for the first time in
longer than a month. He opened his mouth to apologize, but she had
disappeared from sight.

She returned with the requested garments. He
could barely fit into his old blue brocade dressing gown. It had
grown hopelessly tight about the shoulders since the last time he
had worn it more than a dozen years ago.

Stevens was called, and between the doctor
and the butler, Nicholas was helped to his sire’s chambers. The
first dizzying wave of pain made him question the sense of his
plan. Soon enough he was settled on a lounging chair next to his
father, his leg extended.

He grasped the elder’s wrinkled old hand. A
large signet ring swam on a finger of his cold, clawlike hand. His
watery green eyes opened halfway.

“Ah, it is you, my son. I did not think to
see you again in this lifetime,” he said hoarsely.

Panic gripped Nicholas’s stomach. His father
had withered. The sparse hair covering his skull had gone. white,
and his once robust frame was frail.

His father’s gaze moved to focus on the
doctor. “But we have Dr. Kittridge here to thank for keeping me
alive. Percival Smythe, that damned apothecary, almost poisoned
me.”

“Actually, I think it is your tenacity, Your
Grace.” Dr. Kittridge moved forward. “I’ve brought a draught for
you this morning, and one for Lord Huntington as well.”

Miss Kittridge appeared at the other side of
the bed and moved the Duke of Cavendish into a sitting position,
rearranging the bedcovers all in one smooth movement. She brought
to the elder’s willing lips a steaming brew. At the same moment,
the doctor handed Nicholas a cup. It tasted of anise, honey, and
almonds—very strange, but not unpleasant.

“I take it from the looks of your leg that
the Frogs did not let you go unscathed?” the duke asked a minute
later. Nicholas’s explanation glossed over the harsh details.

“But I must know more. Dr. Kittridge, what is
my son’s prognosis?”

“I examined him late last night, after some…
discussion. It is an ugly break with a red swelling in the open
area. But your son is an otherwise strong and healthy gentleman. It
should heal in the next two months with elevation, proper rest, and
a slow rehabilitation.”

Ha! Nicholas was at least glad the doctor did
not worry his father with the second part of the diagnosis and the
mention of his fever, a fever he could feel already returning with
a heated vengeance. Dr. Kittridge had concurred with his daughter
on the possibility of rebreaking the leg should it not heal
properly. But Nicholas would be damned if he was going to stay in
the sick room for the prescribed eight-week period—although, he
wouldn’t have minded lying down for a few minutes right then.

“Will he—” began the duke, before becoming
overwhelmed with a coughing spasm. Miss Kittridge hastened to his
side with a handkerchief.

After a full half-minute, Miss Kittridge
removed the fine linen covering his father’s mouth and offered the
liquid again—but not quickly enough for the flecks of blood to
escape Nicholas’s notice. He breathed in sharply. If his father’s
physical appearance had suggested the end was near, the blood
confirmed it.

As he looked into his father’s sad eyes, he
prepared himself to carry out the duke’s wishes uttered so long
ago. He was not sure he should have come back.… But then again,
what did he have to lose? Except a father. A dear, dear,
father.

The shadows were beginning to creep toward
the center of his vision again. Blast. He was not going to be able
to hide it. The heat turned to an icy flash. His head swam, and the
last thing he saw was Miss Kittridge rushing to his side and
lowering his head to his knees.

As Charlotte walked up the last small rise
before Wyndhurst Abbey came into view, she sighed and was grateful
that within the beautiful limestone walls, the last patients of her
wretched day awaited her. She was weary from attending to the
various aches and pains of the laborers, tenant farmers, and
villagers. They only ever had an apothecary in the past—an ancient
man named Smythe, who resented the newcomers with their newfangled
notions. His ghastly ideas for curing the duke had included pills
made of cobwebs and snail water!

Being a stranger and a female, Charlotte
still had a long road to travel in gaining trust in the
countryside. Mrs. Pierce had voiced doubts concerning the hot
camphor compresses prescribed for inflamed breasts due to new
motherhood. Then there had been the penniless widow from the
village with a boil that had needed to be lanced. She had become
indignant when Charlotte suggested she could pay her fee by
spending one day the next week helping the overwhelmed Mrs.
Pierce.