Barbara Metzger (5 page)

Athena started crying again. Troy was awake, and he knew her. The housekeeper was mumbling a prayer of thankfulness, while setting a glass—lemonade, Athena noted—to Troy’s dry lips. The valet handed her a handkerchief, one with a coat of arms embroidered in the corner. Athena blew her nose on a different corner.

“Hush up, bantling,” she chided. “You had me worried for nothing, it seems. We will speak of your being so far from home later, after you have had a good rest.”

“Yes.… Need to rest.” His eyes drifted closed.

Then they opened again, and Troy reached for her hand. “Not his fault.”

Athena was dismayed at the weakness in his grip, but she said, “Alfie’s? He should never have let you ride so long. And he certainly should not have left you there!”

“No. The earl’s. Not his fault.”

Athena patted his hand, and let Roma come up to lick it, so Troy would not notice the wetness from her falling tears. “Of course not. Why, I am beginning to think that he might have saved your life, you crunch. You might have bled to death if Lord Marden had not been there, and been so capable. We already owe him a vast debt of gratitude, so hurry and get well so that we can go home. His lordship has done enough.”

*

Ian did not know what more he could do. If he could send for a magician or a witch doctor or a Hindi healer, he would do it. Anything. Now that he thought of it, hadn’t Lord Abernathy called in an herbalist when his wife was ailing? Perhaps… No, Lady Abernathy had died. And if all the efforts of all the learned doctors in London could not cure the poor king, what good were they?

For that matter, what good was he, sitting in his morning room, contemplating uneaten platters of ham and kippers and kidneys? But he could not bear to see the boy lying so corpse-like on the bed, nor watch the girl trying to hold back her tears. He could not even look at the surly mongrel licking young Renslow’s cheek to wake him up. Damnation, now he had to feel guilty over disturbing a deaf dog. Between his housekeeper, his valet, and scores of other servants, though, to say nothing of Miss Renslow and her own physician, everything that was possible to do was being done. Ian had nothing to do but wish the day undone.

Or wish he had never been born. No, that was going too far. If Ian had not been born, Paige would have chosen another of his wife’s lovers to challenge, and that poor blighter might be dead now at the rotter’s early-firing hand. Or else young Renslow might have bled to death, if the chap had an older carriage or slower horses.

If nothing else, Ian vehemently wished he had never met Lady Paige, or met her that time in the gazebo in her back garden. Or the maze at Richmond. The Dark Walk at Vauxhall. Lud, he’d lived a sorry life. And now he might have nipped a promising one in the bud.

Damnation, wallowing in guilt and self-pity was not going to help the boy. Ian gave himself a mental shake and then reached for a rasher of bacon. And a slice of toast, a dollop of jam, and a serving of his chef’s excellent steak and kidney pie.

“Gads,” his friend Carswell said as he strolled, unannounced, into the breakfast room, “how can you eat at such a time? All I could do was swallow a bite of eggs.”

Ian put down his fork, no longer hungry. He gestured toward the pots of coffee and tea, and the decanters of more potent beverages. “Help yourself, and tell me your news. Am I to be taken up by the magistrate?”

“Not unless you’ve been tupping his wife, too.” Carswell sat opposite Ian at the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. He added cream and sugar, then reached for a sweet roll, a lamb chop, and the plate of kippers.

Ian raised an eyebrow, but did not question his elegant friend’s supposedly delicate constitution. He picked up his own fork again, like a good host.

“How is the boy, then?” Carswell asked between mouthfuls.

“As well as can be expected, they tell me, although it is too soon to be optimistic. The quacks warn of fevers and congestions and lasting debilities.”

“Ah, but I have some welcome news. Paige has left town.”

“What, already?”

Carswell nodded while he chewed. He swallowed and said, “He had a carriage waiting at his house, all packed and ready. It appears he always intended to shoot early, and shoot to kill. No other explanation for his confidence. Not with his aim.”

“He hated me that much? Odd, I never did anything to him, except bed his wife, of course. More coffee?”

“Thank you. According to Philpott, the loose screw was awash in debts. Shooting you was a handy excuse for outrunning the moneylenders’ heavy-handed collectors, without seeming to renege on his gambling obligations.”

“He’d rather be known as a murderer than a shirker?”

“He was sailing down River Tick straight for debtor’s prison, so he had no alternative but to flee. Since he was going to be leaving the country anyway, he must have decided to take a bit of satisfaction in his leaving. The family has holdings in Scotland, I understand.”

“Mona will be distraught. She adores London, with all its, ah, diversions.”

“Then Lady Paige should be delighted her husband did not take her along.”

“You mean the nodcock fought a duel over her honor and then left her behind?” Ian added a dash of brandy to both his and his friend’s coffee.

“With the bailiffs at the door. The jade will find someone to keep her, never fear, but think what a good turn that rotter Paige did for you.”

“I cannot think of any reason I should be grateful to that swine.”

“Ah, but now if anyone hears of the misfortune with the youngster, they will place the blame on Paige, thinking that was the reason he left the country. Fleeing makes him appear guilty, don’t you see.”

“Yet you wanted me to sail off on your yacht.”

“I was offering an option, nothing else.”

They both considered the situation while they cut and chewed, ate and drank. After a while, Ian said, “The sister arrived. A little dab of a thing, from a harum-scarum household. Young Renslow was right that she could not be left on her own.”

“That reminds me of the other bit of news I discovered this morning: Are you going to eat that last bit of meat pie?”

Ian passed over the plate and waited. When Carswell finally wiped his beringed fingers on the linen napkin and delicately patted his mouth, Ian asked, “Your other news?”

“Oh, yes. I made a discreet inquiry about the Renslows of my cousin, who has his Debrett’s memorized, I’d swear. Do you recall a Viscount Rensdale?”

“Runty fellow, some years our senior, sobersided and clutch-fisted? Had a limp, if I recall. I can’t remember seeing him in town. Too frivolous and expensive, I’d guess.”

“That’s him. Spartacus Renslow, Viscount Rensdale of Derby.
Your houseguest
is his heir.”

Spartacus, Athena, Troy…even the dog was named Roma. “Damnation.” In a different world, a viscount’s son would be no more important than a blacksmith’s, but not in this world. Then Ian did the mental arithmetic and found it just barely possible, if Rensdale had been a lusty youth. He could not imagine the dark-haired viscount begetting the turquoise-eyed pair upstairs, especially the little blonde with the flyaway hair. “You say Troy is his son?”

“No, a half-brother by his late father’s second wife. She died in childbed.”

Ian could not help feeling relieved. “Then Rensdale can beget his own heirs.”

“Can’t.” Carswell offered Ian snuff from an enameled box, which matched his waistcoat, of course. Ian refused, but had to wait while his friend indulged in the revolting but fashionable habit of sneezing until his eyes watered. “Rensdale’s wife never conceived after years of marriage. She was one of Harcourt’s daughters.”

Ian shuddered. “If she is anything like her sisters, I cannot imagine Rensdale trying very hard.”

“According to my cousin, she was an antidote, and a shrew besides. Went through four Seasons without an offer, so Harcourt doubled the dowry. Rensdale jumped at the bargain.”

“A fine bargain: a harridan for a wife and no heir. I hope that dowry was worth what he is paying now. No wonder the youngsters came to stay with their uncle, though, with that pair as guardians. Unfortunately the uncle is away, busy fighting a war. I shall have to write to Rensdale, I suppose.”

“He won’t be happy.”

“Well, I am not happy, either. He should have taken better care of the lad then, instead of letting him run loose in London on his own.”

“The thing is, the boy is sickly, my cousin says. He came to town to consult the physicians.”

Ian remembered how light the boy had felt in his arms, and wondering why he was not at school. “Bloody hell. I shot an invalid.”

Chapter Four

In adversity, a proud man stands tall, like an oak.

—Anonymous

In adversity, a wise woman bends, like a willow. Which one breaks first?

—Anonymous’s wife

The fevers started that night. Ian did not know until late, because Carswell urged him to attend the dinner party at Lady Waltham’s, an invitation he had already accepted.

“Gossip thrives on bare ground,” Carswell had told him. “If you are not there to refute the stories, they will grow like magic beanstalks, touching the sky. But if you act as if nothing is wrong, the seeds of doubt cannot take root.”

“What, are you a farmer now?”

“And get my hands dirty? Never. I do know the
ton,
however, and the rumormongers. They will have it that you were wounded by the dastard, or that you killed him and shipped his body out of England. Heaven knows what story they will concoct, if they have nothing to grasp.”

So Ian had gone out for the evening, after dispatching a note to Rensdale by one of his own footmen, rather than waiting for the post. After the dinner party, he had accompanied his friend to a ball and then a rout, where too many people gathered in too small a space.

He had danced and drunk and played a hand or two of cards. He had eaten lobster patties and paid false compliments to his hostesses. He’d held conversations about the weather, the war, and who were partners for the next waltz. If anyone mentioned Paige or the duel, he’d pulled out his quizzing glass, examined the questioner with aristocratic arrogance, and ignored the question altogether. He had smiled and nodded, and gone about his way.

He brushed aside sly winks and innuendoes from the port drinkers and the card players about Lady Paige’s future with a wave of his manicured hand and a hint of censure. “A gentleman does not bandy a lady’s name about.”

And this gentleman swore he would have nothing to do with the female or any of her kind again. Lady Paige’s affairs were, thankfully, no longer any of
his
affair. He’d broken off their relationship at the first sign of Paige’s anger. That was, regrettably, when the dirty dish had issued his challenge, and far too late.

No matter. Ian was done with the woman who had never been more than a brief bit of gratification, anyway, a minor itch to scratch. Mona had made her own bed…and her bower in the gazebo, her bunk in the barn, and her berth behind the bushes. For certain, she would no longer be welcomed at the higher levels of polite society.

If Ian heard whispers of Mad Dog Marden, he ignored them, too. His friends knew that nickname referred to his daring steeplechase races, not a vicious temper. He was coolheaded, in control. He was the perfect gentleman of leisure, his slightly bored indifference indicating nothing on his mind but the next offering at Drury Lane Theatre.

Lud, the earl thought, he should be offered a role in the coming play. His face ached from maintaining the polite smile, his neck was growing stiff from holding his head so high, and his stomach was queasy from all he had eaten or drunk this benighted day.

Finally, people stopped asking him questions or whispering behind his back. They were all speculating about the increasing Lady Ingersoll—and her handsome head gardener. Bless those who made things grow—and who gave London something else to talk about besides a duel gone bad.

Even Ian could almost believe that nothing was wrong with his world but an upset stomach, until he reached his front walk. He stepped out of the carriage and into evidence of his unwelcome, unwanted, unavoidable guests and their ugly dog.

Barefoot and bilious, he stomped into his house and immediately promoted one of the footmen to kennel master, in charge of one stone-deaf, snappish dog and its accompanying mess.

Then he went into his library, preceded by his butler, Hull, who made sure enough candles were lighted, the decanters were full, the fire was burning warmly for such a chill evening. All of which Ian correctly interpreted as meaning that his major domo had something to say.

“How goes it with the boy?” he asked, afraid for what he might hear. Thunderation, Carswell had been wrong, Ian thought. He should have stayed home instead of going out and enjoying himself, or pretending to be enjoying himself. What kind of cad goes dancing when his houseguest—his victim—lay so perilously ill?

Hull answered, “The surgeon returned, and both of the physicians. They disagree as to the treatment, but all concur that a fever was not unexpected.”

Which meant there had been a contretemps between the quacks. Ian should have been here, instead of leaving the household to manage on its own. He hoped his man Hopkins and his housekeeper knew more about nursing than he did.

“And that Macelmore personage,” Ian’s superior butler was going on, “was here also. At the front door.” Hull’s nostrils flared in disapproval. “He visited the sickroom, then said he would return in the morning to speak with you, my lord. I did inform him that he should use the servant’s entrance. What he said in return cannot be repeated in a gentleman’s home.”

Ian was positive that whatever the old sailor had said, it had been spoken previously, but perhaps not in such colorful terms. “I will see him, whichever door he chooses to use.”

“Very good, my lord,” Hull said with a sniff before turning to leave the room.

Fine, now his butler was offended. Ian called him back. “These are trying times, Hull. We must make do.”

Hull tipped his powdered head. “Indeed, my lord. I made allowances for a loyal servant dismayed at his young master’s pain.”