Candice Hern (67 page)

"I am sorry," he mumbled through his fingers. "But I cannot seem to keep my eyes open."

"You will continue to feel weak for the next few days, I am sure," she said as she fluffed the pillows behind his head. "A fever like that wreaks havoc on a body, and it will take time to regain your strength."

"Yes, I suppose so." His voice sounded fuzzy as the herbal took effect. "You will come back, won't you?" He blinked furiously in an attempt to keep his eyes open.

"Of course," she said. "You will be confined to bed for a few weeks, I should think, and will be bored soon enough. Gram and Terrence and I will take turns keeping you company."

"I. .. look . .. forward ... to .. . it," he said, and then his eyes closed completely.

* * *

Meg left Lord Sedgewick's bedchamber and returned to her own, where she changed out of her habit and into a light woolen dress. Her thoughts were full of the viscount, who was every bit as charming as she remembered, even in his weakened state. More so, in fact, for though she had almost swooned under the effect of that first smile, he had proceeded to put her entirely at ease. And his conversation had been much more flirtatious than she recalled. Of course, it was easier to converse with him in her own home rather than on a dance floor with the disdainful eyes of the
ton
upon her.

But she must be careful not to succumb to that boyish charm and flirtatious nature, not to make too much of that smile. She had watched often enough as he turned it on any number of women to believe that it meant anything special. He would walk out of her life as soon as his leg healed, and that would be the end of it. There was no sense in weaving foolish dreams. Despite Gram's transparent expectations.

Thoughts of Gram led her downstairs toward the stillroom. She needed to put a stop to Gram's interference before she went too far. As expected, Meg found her grandmother at her favorite workbench, grinding dried herbs with a pestle.

Meg walked into the stillroom, breathing in the varied aromas of the hundreds of plants Gram used for her concoctions: sweet, pungent, tangy, peppery, minty, and spicy all mingled together into a pleasant, fragrant whole. Herbs and flowers of every variety hung from the beamed ceiling, and two walls were filled with shelves of stoneware jars and crocks—some with fitted lids, some tied with muslin caps, each carefully labeled with its ingredient.

Above the table at which Gram now sat, narrow shelves were lined with glass vials of every size, filled with concentrated oils and extracts, and smaller crocks of pungent medicinal herbs and roots, for this was where she produced her physics. Another table was lined with baskets of dried flowers, sweet herbs, and orange peels for use in making potpourris, pomanders, and scented waters.

Gram sat with a receipt book propped open before her, listing ingredients and measurements for a specific infusion, written in Gram's own hand. Several other books, including some quite old and rare herbals, were lined up against the wall. Meg pulled over a stool and sat down next to her grandmother. Without a word, Gram handed her a stalk of dried chamomile. Meg grabbed two tiny stoneware bowls from a stack against the wall, and began to crush the stalk between her fingers, depositing crushed flowers in one bowl and crushed leaves in another.

"Did you have a nice chat with the viscount?" Gram asked without looking up, as she continued to grind crushed yarrow leaves into a fine powder.

"Gram, you are an incorrigible old meddler."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"My dear old love," Meg said as she stripped the chamomile stalk of its last leaves, "your motives are as transparent as gauze. I fear you will send Lord Sedgewick running for his life."

Gram looked up, her eyes wide. "Did he say something?"

"He was quite aware of your reasons for throwing us together like that. You are likely to scare him away, you know."

"Hmph." Gram snorted and returned to her mortar and pestle. "He is confined to bed. Where is he going to go, I'd like to know?"

"He will bolt at the first opportunity if you are not careful."

The two women worked in silence for a moment. Meg was hopeful that her hints had made Gram reconsider her actions, for the last thing the old woman would want would be to have Lord Sedgewick take flight. Once he regained his strength, a broken leg was not such a serious malady to forestall his departure, if he felt the need to escape. Meg must keep reminding Gram of that possibility.

"He is a charming gentleman, though," Gram said at last, "is he not? Such a lovely smile."

"Yes," Meg replied as she took up another stalk and began removing its flowers, "very charming."

"What did you talk about?"

"Oh, this and that," Meg said. "Nothing special."

Another silence fell between them, broken only by the rhythmic grinding of pestle against mortar. After a moment, Gram laid down the pestle and tested the pulverized yarrow. Apparently satisfied, she dumped the contents into a large bowl already filled with sizable amounts of dried betony and comfrey. She glanced at the receipt book and turned to inspect Meg's bowls of chamomile. She picked up a small amount of the crushed flower petals, lifted them to her nose, and nodded in satisfaction. She grabbed another stalk and began crushing the flower heads into the same bowl.

"Did he remember you, after all?"

Meg looked up, startled at the question, but Gram's attention was directed at the chamomile. Meg smiled. Gram had, of course, planted the information in hopes that he would pursue it. "Yes, he did," Meg said. "At least he appeared to do so. No doubt he was only being polite. You may be interested to know that it was those horrid dresses you made me wear that finally jarred his memory."

"Then I was right to have you wear them."

"Gram!" Meg laughed and shook her head. "You are, indeed, incorrigible."

"I just want you to be happy, my dear." She looked up and smiled. "And he does seem so perfect for you. Why, he must be even taller than you, Meg. The poor man's legs practically hang over the edge of the bed. Tall, and handsome, too. Oh, my dear, I just know that—"

Meg put a finger to her grandmother's lips. "Not another word, Gram. Promise me! Not another word. I tell you, if you persist in pushing this notion of yours, we will see the back of Lord Sedgewick by week's end."

Gram flashed a contrite look, and Meg removed her finger.

"Do you really think so?" Gram asked.

"I do. Gentlemen do not like to feel pressured, Gram. They turn scared and run. Only ask Terrence. So, please, do you promise to give up this campaign?"

Gram heaved a deep sigh. "I promise," she said at last. "But I shall not stop hoping. You are a beautiful young woman, Meg. I saw how he looked at you."

It was Meg's turn to sigh. "Lord Sedgewick is a very friendly, courteous gentleman. Exactly as he was six years ago. But that is all! He will never offer anything more than friendship."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Gram, a rich viscount, even a tall one, would never be interested in a red-haired giantess. He will no doubt prefer a petite, tractable, fragile-looking blonde. All men do. I can never be any of those things, Gram."

"But I saw how he looked at you!"

"He will never be interested in me, Gram. I am merely a novelty. Not the sort of woman to draw serious attention. Not from any man, and certainly not from Lord Sedgewick. You must accept that. Now, remember your promise. Please, do not get your hopes up."

And please, do not get my hopes up, either.

Chapter 6

"That young roan of yours is making splendid progress, Meggie."

"He is, indeed" Meg reached across her brother the jam pot and spread a large dollop of marmalade over her muffin. She and Terrence had shared a brisk gallop before sitting down to breakfast, and her two-year-old blue roan had made a good showing against her brother's more seasoned mount. "I think Bristol Blue may be as fast as his father one day."

"You've done a fine job with him, my dear," Terrence said as he poured himself a second cup of coffee. "You have put Seamus's nose quite out of joint, in fact. He had wanted to train the roan himself, you know."

Meg chuckled, but was gratified by her brother's praise. "Bristol may be ready for higher obstacles, I think. He is very surefooted on the low jumps, with a good strong neck. His equilibrium is sound. I believe he is ready, Terrence. What do you think?"

Before Terrence could answer, the breakfast room door was opened and Gittings entered.

"There is a gentleman to see you, sir. A Mr. Albert Herriot."

"Herriot?"

"Oh, Terrence," Meg said, her voice lifting in interest, "it must be a relative of Lord Sedgewick."

"Of course," Terrence said as he pushed his chair back and rose from the table.

"I have put him in the small drawing room, sir," Gittings said as he turned to lead the way.

"I am coming with you," Meg announced as she quickly rose and followed her brother. She brushed at the skirts of her habit and pushed a stray curl behind her ear in a feeble attempt to make herself more presentable. She knew that neither of them ought to receive a guest in such a fashion, still wearing their riding clothes and muddied boots, and no doubt smelling of horse. But if the gentleman was indeed a relative of Lord Sedgewick's, then he must have learned of the accident and would likely be anxious about his lordship's condition. It would be cruel to keep him waiting.

Meg followed Terrence into the small drawing room, an oak-paneled room dominated by a rather spectacular overmantel of intricately carved classical figures and curling foliage that stretched all the way to the ceiling. A sandy-haired gentleman of average height stood with his back to them as he gazed out the mullioned windows overlooking the gardens. He turned at the sound of their entry, a look of agitated uneasiness on his face.

"I am Sir Terrence Ashburton," her brother said as he extended his hand to the visitor. "And this is my sister, Miss Ashburton."

"Albert Herriot," the gentleman said as he grasped Terrence's hand and absently nodded at Meg. He was a young man, about the same age as Terrence, with a strong, jutting nose, wide mouth, and level gray eyes which, at the moment, were filled with concern. "My cousin, Lord Sedgewick," he said in an anxious voice, "is he—"

"Your cousin is doing well, Mr. Herriot," Terrence said. "There is no cause for alarm."

A look of profound relief passed over Mr. Herriot's face. He threw his head back and swallowed with some difficulty. "Oh, thank God," he said at last. "Thank God."

"Please be seated, Mr. Herriot," Meg said, indicating an armchair near the fireplace. The poor man looked almost ready to collapse. Meg sat in an adjacent settee and watched as he sank into the chair, his face still pale and haggard, as if he had expected the worst and had not quite yet comprehended that his cousin was alive and well. Terrence had walked across the room and returned with a glass of brandy, which he thrust into Mr. Herriot's hands.

The man looked up, nodded, and wrapped his fingers around the glass. "Thank you," he said before taking a swallow. He then looked at Meg and Terrence, who had sat down beside her, and offered a weak smile. "I am sorry," he said. "It is just that I was so concerned. Sedge is ... well, we are very close, you see. I had thought... but you say he is all right?"

"Yes, Mr. Herriot," Meg said. "He has a broken leg, and suffered a concussion and a rather violent fever. But the worst is over and he is doing much better. He is still quite weak, of course, and will be confined to bed for a while because of the leg. But he seemed in good spirits when I last saw him."

"That is good news," he said, smiling more easily. He was a very pleasant-looking man, with a certain look in his eye which made Meg think he might have a bit of the same sort of charm as his cousin. A family trait, perhaps. "Very good news, indeed," he said.

"How did you hear about the accident?" Terrence asked.

"I was visiting Cosmo Trevelian at Bodley Rise, his hunting box in Norfolk," Mr. Herriot replied. "A shooting party. Sedge was to come as well. In fact, we had met along the way, at Hawstead. We had thought to follow one another to Norfolk, but Sedge was delayed a bit when his valet suddenly took ill. I went on ahead." He took another sip of brandy and continued.

"I became a bit concerned," he said, "when Sedge did not arrive at Bodley Rise by the following day. But I assumed he had stayed behind with poor Pargeter, his valet, or had run into another group of friends, or some such thing." He shrugged and amusement tugged slightly at the corners of his mouth. "Sedge is not always the most reliable of chaps, you see. He can be easily"—he paused and looked directly at Terrence— "distracted."

Terrence and Mr. Herriot shared a significant look, and Meg understood at once that the distractions alluded to were women. So, Lord Sedgewick was something of a rake, was he? Not surprising, she thought, as an image of the famous smile came to mind.

"Then Pargeter showed up a day later, without Sedge," Mr. Herriot continued, drawing Meg's attention back to the matter at hand, "and I confess I began to worry. Pargeter told us that Sedge had left him behind at the inn to recover from his illness, and had gone on to Bodley Rise without him. The same morning I had left."

"I am afraid he did not get very far," Meg said. "We found him on the Ixworth Road, a few miles north of Bury St. Edmunds, just before the toll bar."

"The road just there is badly rutted," Terrence added. "Always has been. It looked as though one of his wheels had become snagged in a deep rut, and Lord Sedgewick was thrown from the curricle."

"Poor old chap," Mr. Herriot said. "Must have been daydreaming instead of paying attention to the road. Might have killed himself."

"Indeed," Terrence said, narrowing his eyes slightly, "he almost did."

Mr. Herriot shook his head back and forth and slowly expelled a deep breath. "Yes, well to answer your original question, just on the heels of Pargeter's arrival, Trevelian received your note, which he shared with me. I came as soon as I could. I brought Pargeter along as well."