Barbara Metzger (4 page)

“You had a surgeon at a shooting match?”

Ian ignored that question. “Your man says Alfie is out looking for Troy now, thinking he must have walked back to town.”

“No, Troy would not have done that.”

“No matter. He did not. I carried him to my house, where the surgeon could tend him, and a physician has been consulted. Everything possible is being done for his care and comfort.”

“Thank you, my lord. I am sure you have been everything kind, opening your house to a stranger that way.”

Ian had to clear his throat. “It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same. At any rate, he is there now, waiting for you. Will you come?”

“Of course. I was waiting for you to have refreshment, my lord. You look like you could use it. This morning must have been difficult for you.”

Impertinent chit. Ian stood. “I am fine. But you might wish to pack a few things, in case you decide to stay a day or two, to keep your brother company. He did not want you to be alone, so he would rest easier knowing you were close by.”

“That is very generous, Lord Marden, and I thank you again. I shall just be a minute, gathering some of Troy’s schoolbooks and such, too.”

“I will ride on and notify my household of your arrival, leaving the carriage for your convenience. You are, ah, welcome to bring your”—he almost said “nursemaid”—“companion with you.”

“I have no companion.”

“Your maid, then.”

She shook those blond locks again. “The housekeeper helps with my wardrobe. Otherwise I can take care of my own needs.”

“But Troy mentioned Roma. He did not think she should be left behind.”

“How like him, and how very sweet of you, my lord. Roma is devoted to my brother and would pine dreadfully. My family is in your debt, dear sir.” With that, she stood and bent down, lifting the mangy dog into her arms, then thrusting it into Ian’s arms. “Will you place Roma in the carriage?”

Chapter Three

Men rely on reason; women rely on feelings.

—Anonymous

What is truth? What your head tells you or what your heart tells you?

—Anonymous’s wife

Upstairs, Athena threw a nightgown and a robe, a change of clothes, and her hairbrush into a small satchel as quickly as she could. Then she took the brush out again. She could not leave the house this way, with her hair looking like a mouse nest. Her hands were shaking so badly, though, that she could not set the hairpins in properly. The gathered strands fell down her shoulders again as soon as she reached under the bed for her slippers.

She made herself take a deep breath before starting over again. Troy would be fine. Lord Marden had said so, and she had to believe him, for anything else was unthinkable. Of course, the earl did not know how frail Troy had been as a child, how they had fussed and fretted over him for years. Her brother was stronger now, Athena told herself, strong enough to ride such a distance. He was never going to be a big, broad tree trunk of a man like Lord Marden, but Troy was no puny sapling. They were all small in her family. Athena had rued her own lack of inches many a time, yet she had as much stamina as any of the housemaids back at home in Derby. They were wiry, the Renslows, not weak.

Was Troy strong enough to survive a gunshot? That was the question. No, it was only one of the questions rattling around her head, the earl’s story having more holes than her silver tea strainer. It was the most important question, though. She knew such injuries often led to fevers. She knew wounds could fester and become gangrenous. Where was Troy shot anyway, and how had she neglected to ask?

She had to let her hair fall again, reaching for a stack of handkerchiefs. She used the top one to blot at her eyes and blow her nose, before packing the rest in with her clothes. At least she had not turned into a watering pot in front of his lordship. Bad enough she looked as if she’d been dragged through a hedge backward, without embarrassing the poor man with her tears, when he was being so solicitous. Athena knew how a weeping woman dismayed her brothers, so she had tried her hardest not to weep until she reached her own room.

Thinking of the earl reminded her again of his parting words, words she clasped to herself like a drowning man grabbed for a floating log. He’d sworn to her that Troy would be all right. He was no god, no fortune-teller, not even a trained medical doctor, to be making her that promise, yet she believed him. Lord Marden was so sure, so strong, so very kind, that she trusted him, as if his saying Troy would recover made it so.

Trusting his lordship did not stop her from sending for their own physician, of course, or scrambling to gather her brother’s books and her belongings as fast as she could, to be on her way, to see for herself, to be with her brother.

She had to do something with her hair first. Athena dumped out a drawer, looking for a ribbon to tie it back. Botheration, she did not have time to braid the mess, or the patience. If she had a scissors, she would cut it all off and be done. Of all the stupid things, she thought, wiping at her eyes again, to be fussing with her unruly mop when her brother needed her. She reached for her bonnet, thinking to stuff the lot of it up inside and worry about fixing it later, but Troy would be upset. He hated that she took so little pains with her appearance, dressing as simply as one of the serving girls at home. Worse, he felt guilty that their meager funds were spent on doctors and books and sightseeing excursions instead of a fancy dresser and a fashionable wardrobe for his beloved sister. Dear Troy thought she should be trying to attract a wealthy beau while they were in London, so her future would be secured.

Goodness, what would Miss Athena Renslow of Derbyshire do with a town buck, a sophisticated man of refined tastes and experience? She was naught but a country girl, despite being the daughter of a titled gentleman. In all her nineteen years, this was her second visit to the metropolis, a green girl staring wide-eyed at the crowds, the cathedrals, the myriad attractions. Besides, they knew no one in the
ton,
had no established hostess to make introductions. Perhaps when their uncle returned to England… No, Athena was content with looking after her brother and letting the Reverend Mr. Wiggs escort her about town.

If, however, she had any ambitions of fixing the attentions of a gentleman of distinction, she would be tempted to set her sights on the Earl of Marden. Any woman with two eyes would, Athena decided. He had to be one of the most imposing men in all of London, tall and well muscled. He was certainly the most handsome, with his dark curls, strong jaw, and warm brown eyes. He looked comfortable in his clothes, not like the tulips she had seen on the strut in the park, too tightly garbed to move naturally. He was confident, courteous, and kind. What could be more appealing in a husband—if one were looking for a husband, of course.

Athena was not. That is, she was not shopping at London’s rarefied Marriage Mart. Still, she collected her hairpins. Gracious, if Troy knew she had received no less a personage than Lord Marden in her oldest gown, her hair unbound, he would have a fit. She had planned on washing it this morning, and so had seen no reason to fix her hair for breakfast with her little brother.

She had to now, for Troy’s sake, so he would not be embarrassed by her appearance at what was certain to be an elegant household. And Athena took the time to do the job properly for her own sake, too, because she was bound to have red, swollen eyes, and she still wore her oldest gown. At least her hair would be neat when she next saw the fine man who had rescued her brother.

He was as impressive as she recalled, standing in front of the open door of an enormous mansion facing the park, as if he had been awaiting her arrival. His bewigged butler was even grander, coming to hand her out of the coach with regal dignity that showed her mended gloves, shabby cloak, and limp bonnet to further disadvantage.

Athena would have turned tail and run home, but Troy was inside, and Mac was handing a waiting footman—one of two, in silver and gray livery—her meager baggage. Besides, Roma had already jumped out of the carriage and was racing up the steps to snap at the earl’s boots.

Athena dashed ahead of the superior butler, who sniffed his disapproval, and leaped between the shouting earl and the ankle-biter. She tapped Roma on the nose to get her attention, then patted her own left thigh. Roma instantly ceased her attack and came to sit at Athena’s feet, growling low in her throat, but not moving.

The earl was staring at them. “I do not believe it. I tried everything to get your stupid dog to obey my commands. It cost me five minutes and a perfectly good pair of gloves to get the creature into the carriage. I almost lost my—”

“She hates coach rides. That was why I asked you to put her in. Troy is the only one who can convince her to ride. Otherwise she is perfectly behaved.”

Lord Marden looked at his once shiny, once perfect Hessians.

“Except for shoes. Her former owner used to kick her. We think he must have been wearing boots. Tasseled ones, I am afraid.”

“Undoubtedly the fellow kicked her because she refused to listen.”

Athena bent to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Yes, the cabbage-head never realized she was deaf.”

“Oh. Deaf. Of course.” He ignored the butler’s cough. “Nevertheless, she shall have to stay in the stables. Maddox House contains far too many valuable—”

The mongrel was bounding up the stairs. Ian could not call back a deaf dog, and he was not about to chase after it the way the hoydenish girl had done before, skirts flying and ugly bonnet flapping around her face. Not in front of his waiting servants. Instead he bowed and said, “Welcome to Maddox House, Miss Renslow. If the dog has any kind of scent hound in that mixed ancestry, it will have discovered your brother’s bedchamber. I am certain you wish to follow. My housekeeper, Mrs. Birchfield, will show you the way. We have prepared the adjoining room for you, and a maid will be assigned to serve your needs. Your man can—”

“Oh, Mac has already left. He needs to find Alfie, you see.”

“Ah, I was hoping he would keep the dog with him.” And Ian had been hoping to locate the missing Alfie Brown himself. “No matter. You have only to ask the maid or any of the footmen for whatever you require.” He eyed the two small tapestry bags the footmen carried. She was going to require a great deal. That would be Mrs. Birchfield’s problem, not his. The housekeeper was already nodding and smiling at the girl, eager to take the little chick under her wing. Ian said, “I shall see you after you visit with your brother and get settled.”

“Thank you, my lord. Once again you have been everything kind.”

Ian fled to the morning room and his long-delayed breakfast. Kind? All he could see in his mind’s eye was the boy, as pale as the white bandage around his head, lost in one of Ian’s own much larger nightshirts, lying still—too still—on the bed. He replaced that image with one of the girl, all splotch-faced from crying over her brother, he could tell, and intimidated by his household although she hid her anxiety by petting the dog instead of meeting his eyes. She did not come to his chin, and she still wore a frock his sister would have been embarrassed to put in the poor bag, topped now with a dreadful bonnet. At least she made him a creditable curtsy before she went off with Mrs. Birchfield, so someone was teaching the chit a few ladylike graces. Someone would have to see that she stopped chasing after dogs, stopped interrupting her elders, and stopped dressing like a ragamuffin. He could only pray that the uncle returned home soon. If not…

Lud, let the Renslow children not be his concern!

Ian’s appetite was gone.

*

He was so pale, so quiet. But Troy was not fevered. Athena tore off her gloves to feel his cheeks. She dropped her bonnet on the floor so she could lean closer, listening to his breathing. “His lungs do not sound congested,” she told the hovering Mrs. Birchfield. “That is a good sign, isn’t it?”

“A fine sign, miss.”

Roma was on the bed, licking Troy’s face beneath the bandages on his head. “He was shot in the head?” That was the worst possible place.

“Oh, no, miss. He was shot in the chest.”

Athena tapped the dog on the nose and pointed to the end of the bed. Roma went and curled up by Troy’s feet, ready to stay until Doomsday, it appeared, or dinner. Athena pulled back the covers, and then the neck of a fine lawn nightshirt, but all she could see was more bandages. At least there was no blood seeping anywhere.

“His lordship never mentioned anything about a head wound,” she said after replacing the blankets.

“He must not have wanted to worry you unnecessarily, Miss Renslow,” a man who had introduced himself as Hopkins, Lord Marden’s valet, answered before the housekeeper could reply. “It seems the young gentleman fell off his horse onto a large boulder.”

“And his lordship did not think to tell me?” Athena’s estimation of the earl slipped a notch. “I think it decidedly necessary.” She would not have bothered with her hair or packing at all if she knew how badly her brother was injured. She would have run all the way here, if she had to, or made his lordship take her up on his horse. Why, she would have stolen his horse and ridden it herself, if the man had not assured her that Troy was simply resting after his ordeal.

“I suppose Lord Marden was merely being kind,” she told the worried looking servants. But now she had to worry about the earl’s confidence in Troy’s recovery. If he could sugarcoat her brother’s condition, what else was he not telling her? “My own physician will be calling shortly. Please have him brought up at once. And I shall need a cot brought in here, and the fire kept higher, so my brother does not take a chill. He will require beef broth and lemonade. Troy does not like barley water. No one has given him laudanum, have they? Not with a head injury, I hope. Or spirits. He’ll have enough of a headache as is. Did your doctor leave anything for the pain or—”

“There’s my Attie,” Troy whispered hoarsely. His eyes were open and his lips twitched. “Knew you’d come, old girl. Knew you’d take over, too. No matter if it is a nobleman’s mansion. Suppose you’d try to run Carlton House if the prince let you.”