Highest Stakes (50 page)

  She eyed his uniform and manner appraisingly and then conceded. "Be pleased to follow me, Major, and I will inquire if my lady will see you."

  The maid led him into a small but cozy drawing room and left him to cool his heels while awaiting the favor of his erstwhile lover, Lady Susannah Messingham.

  Susannah was a common-born woman blessed with both rare wit and uncommon beauty. At a tender age, she had escaped life as a vicar's daughter by marriage to a wealthy knight of the shire, but her marriage had barely lasted a decade before the worthy squire expired of a heart seizure. He left her childless and widowed at the age of eight-and-twenty.

  In her widowhood, however, Lady Susannah suddenly discovered a newfound freedom, a life of license and gaiety she could never have previously imagined. She threw herself headlong into the pursuit of pleasure, determined to make up for her lost youth, and quickly burned through both her fortune and her reputation.

  As her financial state neared a crisis, she determined to mend her ways with another respectable marriage but realized her folly too late. Now past the first innocent bloom of youth, the only proposals she received were less than honorable in nature. Against her better judgment, she accepted a
carte blanche from a marquess, but said lover's declaration of undyin
g devotion lasted only until a French opera dancer stole his fancy.

  Her reputation tarnished beyond redemption, she sold her London townhouse and settled for a small abode near Covent Garden. She endeavored to live an independent life, avoiding the downward spiral of other women who fall on hard times, women handed off from one man to another until their beauty finally wasted, they are discarded on the street.

  Instead, Lady Susannah chose to supplement her modest income by hosting private card parties and entertaining select gentlemen friends, men of her
own
choosing, who were mainly of her late husband's acquaintance. She was akin to many semirespectable women subsidizing themselves in like manner, but Lady Susannah was among the most circumspect.

  To his surprise, Philip had experienced distress rather than satisfaction in learning of his former
inamorata's
fall from grace, but was far from understanding this damnably pervasive feeling of protectiveness for the woman who had so spurned his professions of love.

  With sweating palms, Philip waited in her drawing room. Had she changed? A knot formed in his stomach, and he cursed himself for acting the bloody schoolboy, but she always had that effect on him. Perceiving the light approach of a lady's slipper, he moved to the window and struck a casual pose.

  Lady Susannah entered the room as breezily as if she had just met him at yesterday's garden party. He turned from the window, arrested by her emerald eyes. She was as beautiful as ever. The past five years had been kind indeed.

  "My dear, dear Philip! Such an indescribable delight to see you!" She offered her hand with a dazzling smile.

  "Sukey,"—he accepted her proffered hand—"a long delayed pleasure." His gaze never left her face as his lips grazed her knuckles with leisurely deliberation. "You are every bit as lovely as when I first met you surrounded by all your lovelorn swains."

  The role of gallant was far easier to resume than he could have imagined, he thought sardonically.

  "
All
my swains? You tease me, Philip!" She chuckled throatily.

  "They were innumerable, but I think none admired you more than I."
Now where the hell did that come from?
The confession rolled effortlessly off his tongue. He abused himself for falling back into his position as her lapdog.

  He watched her, mesmerized, as she moved toward the loveseat and silently indicated the place by her side. Ignoring the gesture, Philip disciplined himself to remain standing. He braced one arm casually on the mantle, as if to anchor himself in place. "No doubt you wonder what has brought me to your door after so long an absence." His query was casually posed.

  "One should never question a gift, my love." She smiled and again gestured invitingly. "Pray sit with me, Philip. We have much to catch up on."

  He glanced at the empty space and redirected his gaze out the window, pretending something had caught his attention. He still found her bewitching. It would be so easy to let the past just slip away, all too bloody easy. Just a few hours in her bed, and it would all be a long lost memory. God, he was so weak!

  He shook himself for still entertaining such thoughts of her and reminded himself she was nothing more than a heartless, self-serving coquette willing to sacrifice love for comfort. The thought brought him starkly back to his purpose.

  "I regret this is not a purely social call, Sukey. I have come in need of a favor."

  "A favor?" She raised a brow inquiringly. "What manner of
favor
?"

  "'Tis a simple matter of lodgings for a well-bred young woman, temporarily consigned to my care. I have always known you to be discreet, and I require discretion."

  "Discretion? Is the young woman your ward… or your mistress, Philip?" Her expression hardened.

  "Rest assured she is
not
my mistress. You might call her my
provi
sional ward
," he replied ambiguously.

  "And this is but a temporary arrangement?" Her voice was guarded.

  "Quite," Philip answered. "But I am not at liberty for further disclosure." His quelling look stemmed her questions.

  "Very well, then, I suppose I could accommodate such a simple request. Now, who and where is the girl?"

  "Her name is Charlotte Wallace, and she waits in a hackney outside."

  "In a hackney? Quite sure of me, were you, Philip?"

  "I had hope that you would not deny an old…
friend
."

  They had been much more than that. "No, Philip, I shall not

deny you," she replied. "Pray invite the girl in, and I'll call for tea." She turned to ring the bell, hiding her hurt at his aloof manner.

  Philip returned to the waiting coach to conduct Charlotte to her new abode, knowing she would be safe in Sukey's care. At least the girl had someone to watch over her until he could think of more suitable arrangements. For now, it would have to do.

  "You're just going to leave me here?" Charlotte asked, wide-eyed.

  "What more do you expect of me?" he snapped. "Lady Susannah is a trusted friend. You could not be in better hands."

  "What do I expect? I expect you to take me to Robert! I fulfilled my promise to carry out this farce. Now it's time for you to honor your word."

  Ruffled at her repeated affront to his honor, Philip snapped. "I told you it may take some time to arrange. A military hospital is no place for a gently bred woman. I gave my word that you shall see him. You have no choice but to trust me."

  They entered the house, and Philip made the initial introductions. Having fulfilled his most pressing obligation, he departed, much relieved to have the girl off his hands.

  Charlotte had other ideas. She didn't fully trust Philip's word or his supposed efforts to help Robert. Now left to her own devices, she resolved to locate him on her own. On this point she was singleminded, determined to her very marrow but in possession of only two facts. He was under a surgeon's care and was soon to face the courts-martial. Given these particulars, her search would logically commence at Whitehall. Surely there would be a military hospital nearby. With her plan vaguely formed, she vowed to find Robert.

  Pringle struggled to learn anything from his patient's ravings that might help to turn the tide in his favor, but thus far discerned only the name Robert agonizingly repeated: "Charlotte."

  Fearing the battle near lost, the conscientious doctor stepped up his efforts to learn the identity of the girl. Although he hoped finding her might bring an entirely new set of healing arts into play, at the worst, the young captain might at least spend his last hours in the arms of his beloved.

  Pringle had seen this scenario play out repeatedly, wounded patients lost to infection. It seemed a battle he might never win, yet he vowed to persist in his work. Frustrated with his ineptitude, Pringle retired to his office, cramped and overflowing with his medical texts and research notes, to find some clue, anything he might have previously overlooked in his quest to discover an effective "anti-septic."

  A sudden disturbance outside tore his attention from his notes. Perturbed at the disruption, the surgeon general left his desk to investigate, desirous to confront and punish the offender. He was taken aback to discover the instigator of the fracas was a mere chit of a girl demanding entry at the hospital gate.

  "Now look 'ere, missy, ye'd best be off," the distressed trooper said. "Ye have no business 'ere."

  "If you refuse to let me see the patient, I demand an audience with the chief physician!" She jutted her chin obdurately, refusing to be moved.

  "Ye'll see nobody, missy. Light skirts ain't allowed in the 'ospital. Now be off." The young trooper who attempted to remove her received a smart kick to the shin for his trouble.

  "Light skirt! How dare you make such a presumption!" Eyes flashing and cheeks aflush, Charlotte jerked her arm from his grasp.

  Dr. Pringle fought to restrain his chuckle upon beholding this diminutive young woman thoroughly harassing the trooper. "The surgeon general is a very busy mon,
miss.
Might I know which patient you inquire after?"

  Fearing that someone in higher authority was about to turn her away, she took a completely different tack. "There is a patient within, sir, whose family is exceedingly anxious about him. I have come seeking word of his condition." Her voice was tearful.

  "Are ye family, then?" Dr. Pringle asked.

  "I suppose ye'll now claim to be his sister." The trooper leered.

  "I am no doxy," she retorted.

  The physician inspected her skeptically and replied apologetically, "Indeed not, miss, but you can understand the trooper's error in finding you arrived alone and requesting to see a patient."

  "Indeed I do not understand, sir!" Her reply was indignant. "I am come only to inquire after Captain Devington."

  "Your name, miss? And what kinship do you claim with the patient?" Dr. Pringle asked, hoping the captain's mystery lady had delivered herself to his door.

  She hesitated to answer. While she could claim no entrance by kinship, she was by law, anyway, the wife of a senior officer. She was desperate enough to use any means at her disposal to gain entry, even if it meant
this once
acknowledging her status as a major's wife.

  "Mrs. Philip Drake." She nearly choked on the words as she forced them distastefully from her lips. "That is, I am the wife of
Major
Philip Drake."

  He had prayed Devington's love had come as an angel of mercy, but these hopes were dashed.

  "Only immediate family is allowed visitation privileges, Mrs. Drake. As you are no kin, I am afraid your request is denied."

  Charlotte tried another tack still, immediately softening both voice and demeanor. "But the captain has no living kin, aside from an elderly and infirm aunt in Chelsea. As a close family friend with connections to the Horse Guard, I am come on her behalf, you see." She smiled tentatively at Dr. Pringle. "I understand he's in a grave condition. I desire only a moment and just a word with his physician. Just a very short moment, if you please?" Her imploring hazel eyes ultimately softened the Scotsman, winning her case.

  Dr. Pringle acknowledged surrender. "If 'tis the surgeon general ye seek, lassie, I be he. Dr. John Pringle." He bowed curtly in introduction. "I suppose I'll grant ye entry afore ye lay a veritable siege to my hospital." He offered his arm obligingly to Charlotte and escorted her to the captain's room.

  Charlotte gasped upon her first glimpse of Robert, aghast at the pale, gaunt form. His hair plastered to his brow, he lay in a nightshirt soaked in sweat from the raging fever that racked his body.

  "Aye, lass." Pringle looked at her reprovingly. "Ye see why the sickbed is no' a place for a delicate young lady."

  "It's just that he's so… changed. I was not prepared to see him thus." Her voice broke in anguish.