An Honest Heart (5 page)

Winded from running up two flights of narrow, steep stairs, Caddy pushed her mother’s door open and came to an immediate stop.

Mother lay in the center of the bed, flat on her back, her silvery-blonde hair spread out on her pillow like an overly large halo. Her arms lay folded on the white lace counterpane over her chest. All she lacked was a nosegay of flowers for the scene to be perfect.

Caddy rubbed her throbbing temples, her hand covering her eyes. She wasn’t certain if it was to keep from seeing the expression on Dr. Stradbroke’s face or to keep him from seeing her embarrassment over her mother’s obvious play-acting. She knew Mother wanted her to marry, but faking illness to throw Caddy in the doctor’s path was taking it a bit far.

Dr. Stradbroke paused in the door and took in the scene. The only indication he gave that he noticed anything amiss was a slight lift of his brows—which Caddy saw between her fingers, curious as to his reaction.

Lowering her hand, Caddy crossed her arms and pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from calling out to her mother to stop her pretense.

The doctor set his bag on the bed near Mother’s feet, opened it, and withdrew his stethoscope. He pressed the wide end to her chest and tilted his head to listen through the narrow end.

“Hmmm.” He put the horn-shaped implement back in his bag. He pressed his fingertips to the inside of her wrist and withdrew his pocket watch.

Caddy could hear it ticking from her position at the foot of the bed.

He laid Mother’s arm down gently at her side. He moved forward and leaned over her head, lifting each eyelid and examining her eyes for . . . Caddy couldn’t begin to imagine what he could tell from her eyes except, possibly, that she was just feigning her swoon.

After using almost every instrument in his bag—and probably not with the use for which they were meant—Dr. Stradbroke deliberately and methodically put everything away. He straightened the coverlet, brushed a stray strand of hair from Mother’s forehead, and then turned to face Caddy.

“I fear, Miss Bainbridge, that your mother’s condition is grave.” The doctor crossed his arms, his brown worsted frock coat unable to disguise the thickness of arms better suited to a farmhand or laborer than a doctor.

Caddy’s heart jumped. Could it be possible her mother wasn’t faking her illness? “Grave?”

“Yes. I believe the only treatment that will bring her around is an ice bath. Do you have a tub in which she can be fully immersed?” Dr. Stradbroke turned his head away from Mother and smiled with a shake of his head, his blue eyes dancing.

Caddy almost laughed with relief. Mother wasn’t ill, and he’d seen through her ruse and decided to play along. However, Caddy thought
she
might need the ice bath in another moment, if Stradbroke kept looking at her like that—bringing her into his humor with the simplest of expressions. “I have one I use for dying fabrics. Would that work?”

“Yes. I shall see to acquiring the blocks of ice—”

A low moan from the bed interrupted him. A smile stole across his face—but he straightened it into a visage of concern before he turned to look at Mother. “Mrs. Bainbridge?”

“Wh-what . . . happened?”

“You were in a swoon, ma’am, and we were unable to rouse you.” He leaned over and pressed the back of his large hand to her cheek, then rested his palm on her forehead. “How are you feeling now?”

“I do not know what ministrations you provided, Doctor, but I seem to be regaining strength by the moment.”

The doctor’s broad brow furrowed. “Are you certain, Mrs. Bainbridge? I find that a shock to the body—such as full immersion in an ice bath—can be quite efficacious to restoring one after a swoon.”

Caddy grabbed the railing at the foot of the bed and squeezed, letting the carved wood bite into her palms to keep from laughing at the doctor’s solicitousness toward the malingering woman in the bed.

Mother struggled to push herself into a sitting position, and Dr. Stradbroke helped her arrange the pillows to prop her up. “Yes, you see, I am already much better, thank you.”

Sidling along the bed to the end, Dr. Stradbroke snapped the latch of his kit closed and picked it up. “If you are certain, I’d best be going about my rounds, then.”

“Yes, yes. I am certain. Cadence, you will walk the doctor to the door, please.” Mother waved an imperious hand.

Caddy whirled and started down the stairs, hoping the doctor was behind her, but unable to look at him, knowing how red her face must be from the way it burned. She stopped at the foot of the stairs in the kitchen and turned back toward him.

“Doctor, I cannot begin to apologize for my mother’s deplorable behavior this morning.”

He lifted one hand, smiling at her again. “Think nothing of it. I am only sorry I interrupted your morning in such a way.”

Caddy glanced down—and resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest. The dressing gown covered her corset and petticoats well enough. But it was a dressing gown and nothing fit to be seen in by anyone other than her mother, Mary, or the girls. Especially not a man. “How . . . how much do we owe you for your services?”

He shook his head. “I did nothing other than provide comfort to a woman who is, truly, very ill. I find that when people begin to face their own mortality, they become . . . eccentric. If I can bring them a measure of peace or happiness by feigning ministrations, then it is my pleasure to do so.”

“But there must be something. I cannot allow you to leave without some type of recompense.” Caddy tightened the already tight sash over her dressing gown.

Neal seemed to consider for a moment. “I—no. I cannot ask it of you.”

She stepped forward, eager for some way to repay his kindness toward Mother. “What? Anything, please.”

“My grandmother used to do my mending and darning. But since her passing . . . suffice it to say that stitching wounds together does not prepare one for mending clothing.” He ducked his chin and lacked only rubbing his toe into the floorboards to approximate an embarrassed little boy.

Caddy’s heart skipped and thudded. Did the man not realize what effect his simplest movements and expressions could have on unsuspecting females? “I would be happy to mend for you.”

“Then I will be happy to continue administering peace and happiness to your mother as needed.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “I should be going, then.”

“Oh . . . yes. Shall I see you to the door?”

“I believe I can find my way.”

Caddy followed him downstairs anyway, on the excuse she would need to lock the front door behind him.

He turned on the other side of the threshold and inclined his head. “Good morning, Miss Bainbridge.”

“Good morning, Dr. Stradbroke.”

The early morning sunlight beamed off of his hair, making it appear more golden than brown. Caddy sighed and leaned against the jamb, watching him walk across and down the street.

She wouldn’t mind saying good morning to him
every
morning.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

O
liver pulled the gunstock away from his shoulder, the echoes of his shot reverberating through his head. He should not have indulged in so much brandy last night.

The partridge flew toward the cover of the tree line several hundred yards away. Beside him, the hunting dog sighed. Oliver repeated the sound, a profound sense of ennui settling over him. In the three weeks he’d been at this house party, he’d hunted partridge, quail, and fox. He’d bagged his share. But what he wanted to hunt was not here at Wakesdown.

“You shall shoot the next one for certain, Mr. Carmichael.”

A chill ran across his shoulders and down his arms, and his spine stiffened. He turned and doffed his hunting cap to Edith Buchanan, who looked quite fetching this morning in a gown of ice-blue and silver plaid and a white fur cape and hat setting off her black hair.

“You are always overly generous with your belief in my hunting skills, Miss Buchanan. I fear I am a poor excuse for an aristocrat. I take more interest in the running of my father’s estate than in the leisure activities of which I should be fond.”

The remainder of the shooters and their followers moved toward the next set of brush, sure to be hiding the partridges set out this morning by the staff.

Miss Buchanan watched until they disappeared over a rise, then turned back to Oliver. “I had hoped for a private interview with you, Mr. Carmichael.”

He hated the way she pursed her mouth and seemed to pucker her entire face in what she thought was a simper. He rested the muzzle of the gun on the ground and crossed his hands atop the butt. “And you now have me all to yourself, Miss Buchanan.”

Her expression changed from flirtatious to calculating in the blink of an eye. “Let us not dissemble, Mr. Carmichael. I know you do not care for me beyond my fifty-thousand-pound dowry. You know that I wish to marry a man who will inherit a title higher than my father’s. This will be my fourth season. It is unlikely that I will have any more luck securing an heir to a title this year than the three years past. However, that will not keep me from trying.”

Yes, he had noticed how Miss Buchanan tried to insinuate herself between her American cousin and the viscount several times over the past few weeks.

“I wish to come to an arrangement with you, Mr. Carmichael.”

He shifted his weight and tried to appear nonchalant rather than surprised. “Oh?”

“If neither of us has found a better match by the end of the Great Exhibition in October, we shall marry each other.” No hesitation, no missishness.

He rather liked her no-nonsense approach to the situation. “You shall become the next Baroness Carmichael in exchange for . . . what? Surely a barony is not as high as you have set your sights.”

“No. It is not. However, it may be all I can get. We suit, you and I, despite the fact we feel no affection for each other. You do not need my money, so you will not try to make me believe you have fallen madly in love with me, the way others do. And, should I find an amenable match of higher rank, I know you will not begrudge my breaking our arrangement with protestations of a broken heart.”

Cold. Calculating. Cunning. Oliver’s left brow raised in awe and appreciation for her ruthlessness. And given her beauty, taking her to wife would be no chore, despite her frigid personality.

He extended his right hand toward her. “Very well, Miss Buchanan, I agree to your terms.”

She placed her small, gloved hand in his and gave it a business-like pump. “Of course, you will have the same opportunity—if you find another woman you deem more acceptable than me, you can break the agreement. I shall not hinder you from courting any woman you please, so long as no scandal arises from it.”

He inclined his head. “And I make you the same promise, Miss Buchanan. I will not interfere with your search for a husband, so long as no scandal is attached to my name because of it.”

Edith wrapped her hand through the crook of his arm. He shouldered the gun and whistled for the dog to follow them. “You will, of course, speak to my father before you leave after the ball.”

“As you wish, Miss Buchanan.”

The spaniel bounded ahead of them, probably anxious to rejoin his kennelmates whose barks rose over the hill to indicate the direction the rest of the hunting party had gone.

“Once we are both in town, I shall communicate to you which invitations I have accepted. If we are to be engaged in October, it would be best if we are seen together from time to time. And I do so enjoy dancing with you, Mr. Carmichael.” She turned that puckered simper up toward him.

He inclined his head again. “I shall await your communiqués with delight, Miss Buchanan. And as you are a superb dancer, I look forward to partnering with you as often as you desire.”

At the path that led back to the house one way and farther into the park the other, Edith dropped her hand from his arm. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Carmichael, I have duties to which I must attend. Do enjoy the rest of your hunt.”

“Until we meet again.” He bowed and brushed his lips over the back of her gloved hand. He held in his shudder until she turned her back, heading toward the house. She would make as fine a baroness as his mother. And she would likely be as reviled and gossiped about as M’lady for her haughty, demanding ways.

If Edith, her sisters, and her brothers were any indication, the next generation of Carmichaels would be the most beautiful and most handsome in the
ton
. And her wealth would go quite far in securing his daughters’ futures—once he invested and multiplied it. For if Edith could marry only one step above her on the aristocratic ladder, he would ensure their children would do far better for themselves.

No, he did not
need
her wealth. But he certainly had plans for it. In the meantime, before he tied himself to the harpy, he would spend his last few months of freedom in a more amusing pursuit—that of Miss Cadence Bainbridge. He did, after all, have a bet to win.

Caddy swallowed back harsh words as the bolts of silk crashed to the floor. Nan yelped and jumped from the step stool, trying to lift two at a time and managing only to start unspooling the expensive fabric.