The Fortune Hunter (3 page)

“I told you I could climb the steps alone, my lord,” she whispered, not daring to speak louder, for she feared her head would explode with agony. She would have scowled, but every motion hurt.

“You must forgive me for not wanting to see you take another tumble.” She appreciated that he answered lowly. Again he tipped his hat to her. “I bid you
adieu
once more. If you need anything—”

“Goodbye,” she murmured. She was being ill-mannered, but she didn't want to continue this encounter.

Lord Windham's pleasant expression faded. He set his hat more firmly on his head as he strode to the curricle. Walking around the vehicle, he untied his white horse. He mounted with an ease that bespoke many hours in the saddle. He nodded coolly toward her before he slapped the reins against the side of the horse's neck and rode away at a speed seldom seen on the sedate street.

Mr. Windham smiled an apology, but said nothing as he gave an order to the horse pulling the carriage. Only when it had rattled away along the street toward the Pulteney Bridge did Nerissa turn to where her front door was opening. She steeled herself for the task of climbing the final step. When her head continued to spin madly,
nothing
could be managed without all her concentration.

“Miss Dufresne, this is quite the kickup! What have you done now?”

At the sharp voice, Nerissa raised her eyes to meet the sunken ones in the household's butler's narrow face. She had not expected compassion from Hadfield, and she received none. The man, who was as lanky as his face was long, regarded her with distaste. That was no surprise either. He seldom failed to find fault with some aspect of her clothing or her mannerisms, and delighted in each opportunity to acquaint her with her latest shortcoming.

“As you can see,” Nerissa retorted with uncommon heat, “I was in a bit of an accident. I am also—although it may strike you heart-deep to hear the tidings—relatively unhurt. If you would be so gracious as to step aside, I would prefer to sit.”

“Yes, do step aside, Hadfield,” came a seconding order in a warm, contralto voice.

Seeing Mrs. Carroll's wrinkled face, Nerissa managed to smile. Unlike the butler, from the moment of Nerissa's arrival, the housekeeper had made her feel welcome in the house on Laura Place. Mrs. Carroll was thin, almost as thin as the butler, who resembled a death's-head on a mop stick. She could have been a long, grey bird, twittering about, chiding the lower servants, seeing to every detail of the household.

“
La!
Lamb, you
have
been hurt! Are those bruises on your face?” Mrs. Carroll tipped Nerissa's face, and choked back a cry when the younger woman was nearly rocked from her feet by the faint motion. “What …? No, share the details with me later. First, tell me where you're injured.” She aimed a glower at the butler. “Go and alert Mr. Pilcher.
He
will have sympathy for poor Miss Dufresne.”

“Mr. Pilcher said he had no wish to be disturbed this afternoon,” argued Hadfield in his most haughty voice.

“He will make an exception when he hears of his sister's accident.” Putting her hands on her narrow hips, Mrs. Carroll snapped, “Don't act so high in the instep with me, Hadfield!”

The butler grumbled as he walked away. The only word Nerissa understood was “stepsister”. Hadfield was correct. She was his master's stepsister, but the butler's attempts to create a gap between her and her brother had failed … Nerissa forgot him as she strove to ignore the torrent of torment along her arm.

Mrs. Carroll whispered, “Lamb, where are you hurt?”

“My left wrist.” Nerissa lifted her arm which seemed as heavy as her ironbound legs.

The grey-haired woman urged Nerissa to sit on the padded bench next to the tall-case clock at one side of the foyer. It was harder to move than Nerissa had expected, but easy to sit, sinking into the cushion hidden beneath blue velvet.

The housekeeper took Nerissa's left hand, placing it judiciously on hers. Pain scored Nerissa. The foyer threatened to become a blur of dark wood and the white and black of the checkered floor. She heard Mrs. Carroll order her to take a deep breath. She obeyed and nearly gagged on it as the housekeeper began to undo the buttons along her glove.

“No!”

“Lamb, I must—”

“Just wait a moment,” she begged through the agony. “Give me just a moment.” She could not battle the pain and Mrs. Carroll's good intentions at the same time.

Mrs. Carroll halted with a soothing coo. “The glove must be cut off. I shall hurt you too much if I try to ease it off.”

“You can't cut it off. These are my second-best gloves, Mrs. Carroll.”

“And this is your very best left wrist.” Her voice gentled. “Come into the parlor, Miss Dufresne. The light is better there. Let's see what we can do about your glove and—more importantly—your poor arm. You can stand, can't you?”

“Of course.” Nerissa's words mocked her, for she was not able to set herself on her feet. Grateful for Mrs. Carroll's assistance, she limped into the second largest room on the ground floor. Only her stepbrother's book room was grander.

Easing around a pair of rosewood chairs, Nerissa rested her right hand on one curved back. She needed a minute to gather her senses about her. She gazed across the blue Oriental rug toward the painted sofa with its brass feet, which shone like beacons in the sunlight pouring through the two windows. It urged her forward, but she could not manage to walk the few paces. She dropped into an upholstered chair, her back to the pier glass between the windows, so she did not have to see the damage inflicted on her by a man who had been trying to save her life.

As Mrs. Carroll bent to check Nerissa's wrist, heavy footsteps raced into the room.

“By all that's blue!” came the squeaky, tenor voice that belonged to Nerissa's stepbrother Cole Pilcher. “What adventure have you muddled into this time?”

“Hush, Mr. Pilcher,” the housekeeper chided. “Miss Dufresne has been bumped a bit. Come and sit with her.”

“Bumped a bit? How did you do that, Nerissa?”

She considered laughing at her brother's outraged dismay. When the ache escalated across her head, she lost her amusement. Through the flood rushing in her ears, she heard Mrs. Carroll whisper she would fetch her scissors.

“I said no!” she gasped, then moaned as her protest hurt her skull.

“The glove must be cut off. I won't cause you more pain, Miss Dufresne.”

Nerissa noted the stubborn set of the housekeeper's chin. Mrs. Carroll seldom argued with her, but, when she did, Nerissa had learned to accede to the housekeeper's wisdom. “As you wish.” As dear as every copper had become in their household, she wondered when she could replace the glove and her ruined bonnet. Her spenser could be mended easily … again. Leaning back in the chair, she let its softness surround her as she gazed at the iron grate in the fireplace on the opposite wall.

Never had the chock-full room seemed so dear. The collection of furniture had been taken from their country home before she had arranged for Hill's End to be offered for sale. Running her fingers along the worn mahogany arms of the chair, she took a deep breath of beeswax. The scent belonged both to the past and the present. So little connected the two parts of her life. This should not have been a part of her life, but, when Cole's father died, she had come to Bath to oversee her stepbrother's household. She had been alone since her mother had been buried almost a year before her stepfather cocked up his toes, so Nerissa had been delighted to have a chance to be with family again—no matter how tenuous the connection was.

She also had tired of being in dun territory with the odious creditors lining up outside Hill's End's front gate. Although she had promised her mother she would endeavor to hold onto the lands which had belonged to Nerissa's father's family for centuries, the upkeep had become too prohibitive. She had found it easier to obtain an agent to attempt to sell it. Certainly their purse-pinched days would be behind them once the agent found a buyer.

If her stepfather had left them a respectable jointure, she and Cole would not be forced to play nip-farthings. She was bothered more by their dire circumstances than Cole, for her brother usually thought less about money than he did the hour of the day. In that way, Cole could not have been less like his father, for Mr. Pilcher—she never had and never would think of him any other way—had been obsessed with wealth. It had done him little good, for, despite all his boasting about grand plans, he had left his heir with nothing to run the house in Bath that he had inherited at Nerissa's mother's death.

Nerissa sighed. A visit to grassville, with the green aroma that reminded her of Hill's End, always brought forth her frustration with memories that were better forgotten.

“No brandy,” Nerissa whispered to contradict her brother's order. Tearing herself away from her discouraging thoughts, she forced a smile. “I may be a bit the worse for the wear, but I shan't drink spirits at such an hour. Tea, Mrs. Carroll, if you will. And please have Frye come down. I may need her assistance to get up the stairs.”

“That is the wisest thing I've heard you say, lamb.” Mrs. Carroll's voice was stern, but she offered Nerissa a smile before she scurried out of the room.

Cole called after her, “Brandy for me. I need it.” He knelt by Nerissa's chair and took her right hand in his pudgy ones. “Dear Nerissa, what happened? I thought you were going for a ride with Annis Ehrlich.”

Nerissa looked into his blue eyes that were so much like her own. That there was even this much of a resemblance between her and her stepbrother Cole Pilcher was astounding, because only the marriage of her mother to his widower father had made them brother and sister. While Nerissa was told often that she was the pattern card of her mother, Cole had inherited his father's looks. Stocky and with thinning hair of a sandy color, he stood only a few inches taller than her own spare height. Seldom was he seen without a book in his hands or one propped in front of his nose.

In the months since she had moved to Bath, she had accustomed herself to eating each meal facing his latest manual. She had learned, during those curious meals, more about surveying and geology and transportation than any other woman of two-and-twenty. Her brother was possessed by a dream she could not share, despite her efforts. He longed to build a toll canal from Bristol to London. He had spoken of it during their short time together as children. In the years when they had been kept apart by their parents' acrimonious separation, she had assumed Cole would set aside his childish aspirations. Coming out of short pants had not changed Cole Pilcher. He remained dedicated to achieving his goal.

But he was not an air-dreamer. He was devising his plans with utmost care and attention to the newest scientific developments. Every week, he scanned the
Bath Chronicle
for news about any canal work throughout England. He ordered books from London and memorized each detail.

It was a grand scheme and was certain to leave them swimming in lard, if he made it a reality. There was the singular problem that his father's estate allowed them to live comfortably in the house on Laura Place
only
if Cole supplemented his inheritance with tutoring the children of their wealthier neighbors. That allowed him scant time for the pursuit of his dream. Nerissa wished she could assist him, but she found sewing an onerous chore for which she had no talent, and she had discovered no other work for a woman of her class in Bath.

Nothing was as it should be: Hill's End on the block; Cole's dreams delayed; now this absurd accident. Nerissa winced as she touched a bruise along her temple.

“Oh, dear Sister, you are hurt!” Cole clasped her hand tighter, the motion aggravating the pain in her head. “What a rag-mannered cove I am to be asking you questions when you're struggling to cling to your high health.”

“I'm a bit battered, but I assure you that I shall be fine. I don't need you quacking me.” All the color drained from Nerissa's cheeks as she recalled making nearly the same retort to Lord Windham less than an hour before.

“Nerissa!”

“I am fine,” she repeated, but with a scrap more strength. If she wound herself up with thoughts of the viscount, Cole would be even more determined to unearth every detail. She preferred to forget the embarrassing episode. “I know I look a dashed shabby, but …”

Her words faded as Mrs. Carroll bustled into the room. The housekeeper held her scissors like a weapon in her thin hands. Biting her lip, Nerissa balanced her left arm on the chair and watched as the housekeeper cautiously slid the tips of the scissors beneath the leather. The gentle caress of the metal on her swollen wrist detonated within her, turning the room into an endless tunnel, unlit with anything but pain.

Nerissa grabbed on to her senses. She couldn't lose them completely. Then they would smother her with more concern. She felt too bad to suffer that. Hearing Cole begging her to answer him, she tried. It was impossible to form a single word in her pain-ridden mind. Feeling tender hands loosening her broken bonnet, she kept her eyes closed. It was easier not to fight the pain.

“There. All done,” the housekeeper murmured. “Ginny?”

Curiosity urged Nerissa to open her eyes as she heard Mrs. Carroll call to the maid. Ginny held out a metal basin, her eyes wide with dismay as she stared at Nerissa's bruised wrist. The housekeeper wrapped warm, moist clothes about Nerissa's wrist, hiding the swelling and discoloring. The heat lessened the pounding, and Nerissa whispered her thanks.

“'Tis nothing, lamb. Have Frye order a bath when you're ready. I'll see you have plenty of hot water to soothe those bruises. Now just sit and be quiet.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carroll,” she said so dutifully the housekeeper smiled before she herded Ginny out of the room.