The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1) (5 page)

Lucy was tipping a spoonful of broth down Lord Drayson’s throat when he coughed and spluttered and opened his eyes, only to squeeze them shut again with a moan. “Oh, my head.”

Lucy wasn’t surprised by his moan. He had a nasty lump at his temple with a dark bluish hue to it.

His eyes blinked open again, more slowly this time. He flickered a glance to the right and to the left before settling his gaze on her. His forehead creased in confusion. “Where the devil am I?”

She lowered the bowl of broth to her lap, not appreciating his tone at all. “Askern, Yorkshire, in the dower house at—”

“Yorkshire?” the earl said, cutting her off. “What the deuce am I doing in Yorkshire? And at a dower house, no less?”

Lucy wasn’t about to remind him. He would remember soon enough, and she was determined to keep the conversation as civil as possible until that time. She stood from where she had perched beside him on the bed and set the bowl on a small bedside table. “You fell from your horse and smashed your head on a rock. My maid and I—”

“That is absurd. I never fall from my horse.” He paused and frowned. “Or, I don’t think I do. No, I’m quite sure I don’t. That’s preposterous.”

“Well, you did,” said Lucy, feeling more and more cross. He had rudely interrupted her twice now in order to proclaim his own self-importance. What conceit.

“Who are you?” He peered at her for a moment before lowering his gaze to his hands, which he lifted and turned over, examining his palms thoughtfully. “Even more perplexing, who am I?”

Lucy’s brows drew together. He must have hit his head harder than she’d imagined if he could not recall his own name, though sometimes head injuries had that effect on a person, did they not? She was certain she remembered reading about that somewhere, or perhaps Mr. Shepherd had told her as much. He did so love reading medical journals.

“You do not know who you are?” asked Lucy, curious. How long did it usually take for one’s memory to return?

“Of course I do,” he said sharply. “I just . . . can’t recall my name at the moment.”

“What about your mother’s name?” Lucy tested. “Can you recall that?”

His forehead furrowed a moment before he pressed the heel of his hand against it and groaned. “What did you do, strike me with a mallet?”

Lucy couldn’t help but think that she would very much
like
to strike him with a mallet. “I have already told you. You fell from your horse and struck your head on a rock.”

One light eye opened and he glared at her. “And I told
you
that I never fall from my horse.”

“How can you be so sure? You can’t even recall your name,” she countered.

“Because I
am
sure about that. I can’t explain why, I just am, like I’m sure I detest broth.”

Lucy eyed the bowl on the table and shrugged. “To be fair, I cannot say for sure that you fell from your horse, as I wasn’t there to see it happen. All I know for certain is that I watched you ride away, and when I next saw your person, you were lying in the path, unconscious. Perhaps a highwayman rode up behind you and clubbed you on the back of your head—not that I have heard of any highwayman around these parts, but you never know. Or mayhap you ran into a low-lying branch. Or a monkey swung out of a tree and frightened you off your perch.” Lucy barely refrained from describing it as a “top-lofty” perch.

“A monkey? In Yorkshire?” he asked. “Did you fall and hit your head on a rock, too?”

“Ah, so we finally agree that is the most sensible conclusion, is it not?” Lucy smiled, feeling oddly triumphant.

He answered with a frown and groaned again, tenderly touching the back of his head. “How did I come to be in . . . Askern, did you say? Or in this house? I am quite sure I do not make a habit of visiting dower houses in Yorkshire.”

“Where would you be if not here?” Lucy probed.

His forehead creased again, and he clamped his eyes shut. Moments later, he opened them again, and he shook his head in defeat. “Perhaps you could be so kind as to tell me. We can begin with who you are and go from there.”

Lucy watched him closely, feeling a hesitancy to explain anything. She merely said, “My name is Lucy Beresford,” and left it at that.

He did not appear the least bit enlightened. “That name means nothing to me, nor does your face. Who are you in relation to me?”

His domineering tone made her hackles rise yet again. Yes, it would be maddening to not remember one’s name, but had he paused to consider, even for a moment, the effort it must have taken to drag his body down the path and into this house? Or the kindness it had taken to clothe him or pour broth down his ungrateful throat? Lucy had exerted a great deal of goodwill on his behalf, and now she suddenly wished she could pour the broth over the top of his puffed-up head.

More than ever, it irked her that he was wearing her father’s clothes, even if they had been his cast-offs. Lord Drayson was the complete antitheses of all that was good and kind. Earl or not, the man could lend an ear to one of her father’s lovely sermons about humility and benevolence.

As could you,
came the pestering thought.
Lest you forget the tale of the Samaritan.

“Good grief, woman, will you not answer me?” barked the earl.

Lucy glared at her patient, thinking the man the Samaritan had helped had surely been more gracious than Lord Drayson.

“No, I think I will not,” said Lucy in defiance.

His eyes widened as though unused to such treatment. “You cannot be serious. It is not a difficult question to answer. How did you come to be acquainted with me, or are we even acquaintances? I am beginning to think we could not possibly be.”

The airs he put on! Lucy wanted very much to throttle this man.

“How did
I
come to be acquainted with
you
?” Lucy repeated. “How do you know it was not
you
who became acquainted with
me
? Or is that something you simply ‘know’ the way you know you detest broth, even though someone spent hours preparing it on your behalf so that you would not expire from hunger or thirst.”

He stared at her incredulously, as though she had escaped Bedlam. “Are you in your right mind, woman?”

Lucy leaned forward and planted her palms on his bed so that her eyes were level with his. “My name is Lucy Beresford. I have lived in Askern all my life. I’m the sole daughter of a vicar and a seamstress who lived most happily despite their differences in station. When my father passed away, I came here, to this dower house. So yes, I am in my right mind. It is you who are not.”

The earl’s jaw clenched, and Lucy took some pleasure at the sight. Perhaps he would come down off his high horse and show at least a small amount of kindness or respect.

“I may not know who I am or where I came from,” he finally said, “but at least I do not feel the need to tell tales.”

“Tell tales?” Lucy gaped at him. Was he accusing her of telling untruths?
Her,
of all people? What untruths? How dare he!

Lord Drayson glanced down at his fingers, frowning when he spotted grime under his nails. He began to scrape it out as he spoke. “Claiming to be the daughter of a vicar and seamstress is all very romantic, but it cannot possibly be the truth.”

“And why not?” she asked.

His gaze returned to hers. “In my experience, the daughter of a vicar would behave with more decorum, would know how to make a palatable broth, and would never allow herself to be alone in a room with a man who is not her relative. If there is one thing I know with absolute certainty, it is that you are no relation of mine.”

Lucy’s jaw clenched as she fought to control the rage building inside her. Ever so slowly, she pushed herself up to standing and glared down at the earl. “You are correct in thinking I am no ordinary vicar’s daughter. I do not love unconditionally. I show decorum only when I wish to. And I despise those who care for no one but themselves. But I do
not
tell tales.”

He actually chuckled, but it was more of a scoff than a show of humor. “Did you learn those traits from your father?”

“Do not speak of my father.”

“I would prefer to speak of myself, but you do not seem to share that preference, so perhaps we should speak of your father instead. Where is he, by the by? I would very much like to meet him.”

Lucy’s fingers became fists while her conscience became a battleground between all that was good and evil inside her. It was a short battle, with evil making a quick triumph.

Ever so slowly, her body still trembling with anger, she lifted her chin. If he was going to accuse her of telling tales, then tell them she would. “Very well, Collins. If you must know, I am your employer. And though you may not remember me, or this house, or your position in it, or the fact that you are perfectly susceptible to coming off a horse, just like any other human, I still expect some kindness and respect from you.”

“What on earth are you talking about? What position?”

There was not a hint of hesitation in her voice when she answered. “You are a servant in this house.”

“A
servant
?” He scoffed as he said it, as though it were a great joke, which it wasn’t. Not to Lucy. Not now. She had never been more serious about anything. Or unrepentant, for that matter.

“You are a man of all work. You fulfill the role of butler, footman, and coachman.” This lying business came much easier than it should after so many years of disuse. It was both exhilarating and lowering at the same time. Lucy’s father would be vastly disappointed in her.

“That’s absurd,” said the earl. “No one person would agree to fulfill all those duties, and I would know if I were someone’s
servant
.”

“You always did give yourself airs,” said Lucy.

“I beg your pardon.”

“No, I beg yours,” said Lucy. “You lie in our home, making demands like you are the Prince Regent himself, when what you ought to be doing is thanking me. Georgy and I found you half-dead on the path, dragged you a fair distance in the freezing rain, changed you into dry clothes, and poured warm broth down your throat. You have always had a disagreeable nature, but this is beyond anything, even for you . . . Collins.”

He inspected his hands before turning them palm-side up for her inspection. “If I am, indeed, a servant, why are there no calluses on my hands?”

“Because you are a slothful servant.”

“Then why retain me?”

Lucy thought quickly, recalling to mind a novel she had recently read with a plot that would fit this situation nicely. “Because you came to this house with nothing and begged me to take you on in exchange for food and a room. And I . . . well, I suppose I felt pity on you. I am not sure why now. The moment you are well, I shall give you the boot directly.”

At some point during her speech, the earl must have stopped attending for he was now examining the pale pink cuff of his sleeve with extreme distaste. He touched it briefly and quickly drew his hand back as though the fabric had defiled him in some way. “What the devil am I wearing?”

Lucy was more than willing to oblige him with an answer. “Your favorite shirt, of course.”

“No. This most certainly is not my favorite shirt, if it can be called such a thing. It is hideous.”

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that,” said Lucy. “At least one good thing will come from this trying day.”

“And what is that?” he said crossly.

“You have finally realized that you have deplorable taste in clothing.”

Lucy walked into the empty kitchen and collapsed on the nearest barstool, feeling weak and shaky. She leaned forward, dropping her head to the palms of her hands as she tried desperately to regain control of her breathing.

She had just told a lord of the realm—the owner of Tanglewood—that he was her servant.
Servant!
And not just any servant. He was now her butler, footman, and coachman. The Beresfords did not even own a coach, only a small cart.

An eight-year-old vow was now broken to bits and pieces with no way to put it back together. Even if Lucy strode back into the room and confessed the truth, she had still lied. What had she been thinking to lose her temper in that manner and say such things? It went against everything her parents had taught her and everything she wanted to be. Even worse, as soon as the earl recalled his true identity, he would not hesitate to send them packing immediately.

Of all the idiotic, reckless, and foolish things she had ever done.

The side door opened, and Georgina walked inside, smiling as though all was right with the world. “Mornin’, Miss. It’s a beautiful day today. I can almost see the sun—why, wotever’s the matter?”

Georgina set down the pitcher of water she carried and clasped Lucy’s hand. “Don’t say Mr. Cavendish died durin’ the night.”

If only that were the case.

Wicked, wicked girl!
Lucy chided herself yet again and immediately wished back the evil thought. It had only been two days since her mother had gone, and it were as though Lucy had opened the door and ushered Lucifer himself in to play.

“Don’t worry, Georgy. He is still very much alive.” Lucy met the gaze of her maid with a cringe. “But you are going to scarce believe what I have just done.”