The Toplofty Lord Thorpe (12 page)

A scant second later she was lying unconscious in the dirt, the button still clutched in her hand.

 

“T
AKE A DRINK OF THIS
for me, Lucy,” a male voice crooned, supporting her back with his hand as he held a glass to her lips.

She struggled to open her eyes, but could see little in the dusk-darkened room. “Julian?” she ventured, blinking hard to banish the mist that floated in front of her eyes. “Where am I?”

“You're in your bed at Hillcrest. You had a spill from your horse. Drink this.”

She was all right, although her head ached abominably. Julian was with her. She was fine. But she wasn't thirsty. “Don't want any,” she slurred, trying to turn her head away.

“You'll sleep better,” he urged, pressing the rim to her lips. “It will help your head. It hurts, doesn't it?”

A small smile touched her lips. Dear Julian. He was trying to help her. “Sleep,” she said almost eagerly. “Just want to sleep.”

“That's right, Lucy,” he encouraged, watching her as she tried to drink. “Be careful, you're slopping it onto your nightgown.”

“It tastes vile,” she protested, trying to squirm from his hold. “Don't want any more. Have to tell you what I found. Sleep later.”

“Do as I say,” he ordered, his harsh voice setting off a new onslaught of pain in her abused head.

Choking and gasping, she tried not to swallow the
brackish-tasting liquid Julian kept forcing into her mouth. “Stop,” she spluttered. “Hate you, hate you for this. Don't want to sleep.”

After he had satisfied himself that he had gotten enough of the potion into her, he let her fall back against the pillows. “You'll sleep now,” he said almost gently as he left the room. “You'll sleep forever.”

An alarm bell went off in Lucy's tortured brain. “Eternal sleep,” the old Gypsy had told her. She didn't want to sleep forever. She…
Oh God!

Lucy struggled to sit up, and the room spun around her. She had to get help; Julian was trying to kill her! She opened her mouth to call for Deirdre, but no sound came out. She was so tired; every small movement became a herculean effort.

Poisoned, she decided, and felt her heart pounding painfully in her breast. Julian has poisoned me! Dragging herself over so that her head hung from the side of the bed, she stuck her finger down her throat and tried to empty her stomach. The top of her head was coming off; she had never known such pain. As the retching ended, so did the last of her strength, and she collapsed against the sheets, Julian's name a question on her lips.

 

J
ULIAN WAS PACING
the library like a caged lion. From the moment Lucy's mount had come into the stableyard alone, he had been fighting a rising panic that had nothing to do with the façade of calm he usually presented to the world.

He and Tristan had ridden out immediately, finding Lucy's unconscious body less than a mile from the estate, and Rule had wisely refrained from coming near him as Thorpe lifted Lucy carefully into his arms and gently carried her back to Hillcrest.

The doctor had been and gone, pronouncing her fit enough except for the concussed head, and had advised them to let her sleep until she awakened naturally. Before leaving, he handed Julian the button he had found clenched in Lucy's hand.

Rachel and Deirdre had announced that they would take turns sitting with their patient, banishing Julian over his protests that he be allowed to watch over her while she slept. But as the day slipped slowly away, Lucy had shown no signs of stirring, and Julian was fast running out of patience.

Lucy had looked so pale, so defenseless, lying there in the road like a child's carelessly discarded doll. It wasn't that he didn't believe the doctor, or Rachel, who had just moments ago at the dinner table told him that Lucy would be just fine by morning.

He had to see her for himself. He
would
see her for himself! His mind made up, he left the library and headed for the stairs, overtaking Rachel, who was just about to return to Lucy's room.

“Deirdre went down to her dinner a little while ago,” she told the earl. “Tristan detained me with his latest theory—just as bloodthirsty as all his others—or else I would have been with Lucy by now.” Cocking her head to one side, she took in his lordship's
strained features. “I don't suppose it would hurt anything to let you peek in on her for a moment.”

“I am not by nature a violent man, Rachel,” Julian returned amicably, “but may I suggest that it might be decidedly hurtful for you if you believed you could keep me away any longer.”

“You really do love her, don't you?” she said, her heart reaching out to him.

“Yes, I really do,” he admitted solemnly. “So much so that I am sending the both of you away from here as soon as Lucy is fit to travel. I'm still not sure Lucy's fall was an accident.”

They had reached Lucy's bedchamber, and the first thing they noticed when Rachel opened the door was the sour smell that was overlaid with another, cloyingly sweet scent. “Laudanum?” Thorpe ventured, sniffing. “And something else?”

Rachel moved to light some candles. “It can't be laudanum,” she told him. “The doctor specifically told me not to give her any—not with the injury being to her head.” She looked toward the bed, noticing that the covers had been dragged all to one side. “She must be stirring; the blankets are all tossed about. If you'll just give me a moment to tidy her up a bit, you can…
Oh, dear Lord, Lucy!
”

Julian was at the bedside like a shot, taking in the sight of the soiled carpet and the unnatural stillness of Lucy's body. “She's not…?”

Rachel put her fingers to her niece's neck. “She's all right,” she reassured him, leaning over to stroke
the damp curls back from Lucy's forehead. “She must have been sick after Deirdre left.”

But Julian couldn't believe it was that simple. Looking about him, he discovered Lucy's tooth glass on the table beside the bed. Picking it up, he sniffed at it. “Laudanum,” he said, and his handsome features hardened into a tight mask. “Somebody's given her laudanum. Thank God she didn't keep it down!”

“But why?” Rachel asked, one hand to her mouth. “The doctor said—”

“Who was there when he told you?” Julian interrupted, already stripping off his coat.

“Why, nearly everyone, I suppose,” Rachel told him, trying hard to think. “Except you. You were upstairs here fighting with Deirdre because she wouldn't let you in to see Lucy. Do you honestly think one of us…?” She let her question dangle, swallowing hard. “Of course you do.” She gasped as Julian threw back the covers and began unbuttoning Lucy's gown. “What are you doing?”

“Get me a clean nightgown, will you?” he asked, already stripping Lucy to the buff. “Come now, woman, this is no time to go prudish on me. It's going to be a long night as it is.”

“But you said Lucy had rid herself of the laudanum.”

“I don't know if she got rid of all of it, just some of it. We have to wake her, and keep her awake, until the effects wear off.” Julian was having great difficulty in inserting Lucy's seemingly boneless arms into the white lawn nightgown Rachel handed him.

“And what are you about?” Deirdre's squawk of protest fell on deaf ears as Thorpe brought the gown down over Lucy's hips.

Rachel filled in the maid on what had transpired before that indignant young woman could launch a physical assault on the earl, which it appeared she was fully capable of doing. “It's right he is, ma'am,” Deirdre then said, all business. “We have to wake her. Are you going to walk her around a bit, my lord?” she asked Thorpe, springing to help him lift Lucy from the bed.

“I'll walk her to hell and back if I have to,” Julian swore fiercely. “And when I'm sure she's all right, I'm going to assemble everyone in this household and kill somebody!”

O
NE OF
L
UCY'S ARMS
wrapped around each of their shoulders, Julian and Deirdre half-dragged, half-carried Lucy up and down the length of the room, talking to her loudly and occasionally lightly slapping her cheeks.

It seemed like a lifetime had passed before Lucy started showing signs of coming around, and then it was as if she was reluctant to rejoin the land of the living. “No, Julian, no,” she would protest feebly. “Don't want to, don't want to.”

But her feet had begun to move on their own, and the ungainly trio was forced into an erratic gait as Lucy alternately lurched ahead and then dragged her toes along on the carpet. “Come on, darling,” Julian urged her over and over again. “Do it for me. Please, do it for me.”

“The Gypsy saw it,” Lucy muttered sorrowfully, a tear running down her cheek. “Oh yes, the Gypsy knew.”

Julian jerked to a stop, his eyes widening in his head. Rachel and Deirdre thought Lucy to be rambling, but he knew better. His blood ran cold as he realized that Lucy had known someone had tried to kill her. She hadn't merely been sick—she had been using her last strength to try to save her life. “The
gypsy was wrong, Lucy, do you hear me?” he declared in a loud voice. “Listen to me, dearest. The Gypsy was wrong!”

Her head lifted slowly and she looked at him with unfocused eyes. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head in denial. “She saw you. I saw you. Why, Julian? Why did you do it?”

“What's she talking about?” Rachel asked, as she relieved Deirdre and fell into step with Thorpe. “What's this business about a Gypsy?”

Tersely Julian told her about the Gypsy fortune-teller Lucy had visited at the traveling circus they had stopped at on their journey to Hillcrest. “I was angry at the time, but then I forgot all about it. But Lucy must believe it was I who poisoned her.”

“Oh, no, Julian, surely you must be mistaken. Lucy could never believe such a thing. She loves you.”

“Hate you, Julian. Hate you, hate you, hate you.”

“Of course you do, darling,” Julian soothed, although Rachel could hear the agony in his voice. “Just walk for me, Lucy. Come on now, that's a good girl, you can do it.”

“She doesn't know what she's saying, Julian,” Rachel assured him as she took in the firm set of his jaw.

“I don't want anyone to know what's going on in this room,” he suddenly ordered. “As far as the rest of the household is concerned, Lucy is still unconscious due to her fall. Somewhere in this house is the person responsible for this, and I wouldn't want to
deny him the joy of believing he has succeeded in his plans. Do I make myself clear, ladies?”

“Ain't Dexter,” Deirdre sniffed. “He's a sorry-looking shrimp, but he's harmless. Gormless, almost.” Although the Irish maid was too smart to succumb entirely to Dexter's blandishments, she had evidently developed a bit of a soft spot in her heart for the young dandy.

“
Everyone's
a suspect now until I say differently,” Thorpe told her harshly, cradling Lucy's head as it lolled helplessly against his shoulder.

“I wouldn't tell Tristan that,” Rachel interposed with a bit of a smile. “I do believe he might take exception.”

“That only leaves Parker,” Julian mused, then shook his head dismissively. “Can't be him. God, the man nearly got himself killed trying to help me. It has to be someone else.”

“Yes, but who?” Rachel asked, rubbing her arm once Lucy's weight was gone, Julian having lifted her into his arms and deposited her on his lap as he sat down on the bed.

“Love you, Julian,” Lucy whispered, lifting a hand to stroke his cheek. “Always loved you. Why did you do it? It wasn't nice.”

His eyes closing on the unspeakable pain he was feeling, Julian answered Rachel's question: “I don't know who yet. But I'll find out. I'll bloody well find out! Now, leave us, please. I believe she's out of the woods.”

Deirdre looked to Rachel for guidance and that lady
nodded her head. No more harm would come to Lucy that night, not with Julian there to protect her. Motioning to the maid to follow her, Rachel slipped from the room.

Lucy was beginning to come around, and her soft sighs and small squirmings were having a decidedly bracing effect on his lordship's physical condition. “Sit still, love,” he warned her softly. “It's been a long night, but I'm not so fatigued that I'm not aware of the thinness of your nightgown. Or forgetful of the treasures I've seen hidden beneath it,” he added under his breath.

“Love Julian,” Lucy crooned, a silly smile hovering about the corners of her lips. “Lucy loves Julian—
so much!
”

“Yes, darling,” he answered, disengaging her arms, which had somehow woven themselves about his neck. “Just let me tuck you in bed now that Deirdre has put fresh linen on for you. Lucy, sweetest,” he repeated, as she showed a disinclination to release him, “you have to let me go now.”

Lucy pouted, her full lower lip jutting out petulantly. “Don't want to. Lucy loves Julian.” She leaned her head back, nearly unbalancing the pair of them. “Does Julian love Lucy?”

“Julian loves Lucy,” Thorpe sighed, taking in the bareness of her long, slim throat as she lolled bonelessly in his arms.

“Then give Lucy a kiss,” she teased, trying with all her might to pull his face down to her pouting lips.

Julian looked helplessly about the room, half-
praying for reinforcements, half-fearing someone would show up and take this willing female off to some safe place, away from his rapidly disintegrating moral judgment. “Lucy, have pity,” he begged, just before she shifted her weight one more time, causing the two of them to fall back against the mattress.

Lucy's eyes were still shut tightly, perhaps because of the lingering pain in her head, and her tongue slipped out to moisten her parched lips. “Julian doesn't love Lucy,” she intoned sadly, turning her face to one side and giving a deep sigh.

The last remnants of the wall Julian had built around his emotions crumbled into dust as he slid his arms around Lucy's prone body and laid his head on her breast. “Julian loves Lucy more than life itself,” he groaned huskily, very aware of just how close he had come to losing her. “I'll always love you.”

Lucy's arms lifted up to wrap around his back, cradling him to her, and he turned his head slightly to nuzzle at her throat. This was madness. She had fallen from her horse just that afternoon. She had been drugged—nearly to death. And here he was, like a randy goat, lusting after her body.

But it was more than that. Like humans all through the history of mankind, he was reacting to the fear of loss by wanting nothing more than to celebrate the continuation of life. This was why man was urged to procreate, this was why woman wished above all things to feel a new life growing within her.

Knowing none of this, reasoning very little as to why he was acting this way, Julian succumbed to his
heart. Sliding a hand under Lucy's head, he lifted her face to his and allowed nature to take its course.

She was all response, all fire and fluid, giving everything while taking all, and he was totally lost. Her mouth burned beneath his, her body molded to his as if fashioned for just that purpose, her hands branded his face, his neck, his back.

“Lucy, my dearest, darling Lucy,” he breathed, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the opening of her gown. “Always and forever, my darling Lucy.”

Lucy was floating. Her head, which had been pounding so fiercely just minutes earlier, was now numb to everything but the sensations sent to it from her gloriously alive body. Julian was here; Julian was holding her, touching her, kissing her. Julian was her love. Julian was…

“Julian,” she whispered into the ear she was just then nibbling. “Why did you hurt me?”

His hands stilled on the third button from the top of her gown. She still thought that he had been the one who had tried to kill her. His blood ran cold, succeeding in immediately cooling his ardor, though not his fierce love of this girl who could still love him, believing him guilty of trying to murder her.

“Lucy,” he begged, stroking her head as he willed his words to penetrate the hazy world of sensation Lucy still inhabited, “I didn't do it. I'd never hurt you. I swear to you, with God as my judge, that I would never harm a single hair on your adorable head.”

The fact that he had come perilously close to de
flowering his “love” while she was in a near-senseless state caused him to grimace as if he were in deepest pain, but he knew he would have to reserve his guilty feelings to be dealt with later. Right now it was imperative that Lucy be brought to understand that he loved her—would never harm her. “Lucy, you must believe me!” he said, shaking her slightly for emphasis. “My God, please!”

But Lucy was at last slipping into a healing, restful sleep. The last thing she did before her tightly closed eyelids relaxed into a more normal expression was to lift her hand to Julian's cheek and sigh. “It's all right, Julian. All right. Still love you.”

He caught her hand as it began to slip away and pressed his lips into her palm. Then, realizing that further attempts to rouse her much before midday would be fruitless, he shifted her body to the middle of the bed and drew up the covers.

He stood beside the bed for a long time, watching over her as she slept. It was nearly dawn before he spoke again, so softly that Rachel, who had peeked in to check on her niece, could barely hear his words. “I'll kill the bloody bastard!” he rasped, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. “I swear to God I'll kill him!”

 

T
HE SUN WAS FAIRLY HIGH
before Julian stirred from his chair in front of the cold fireplace in his, the master bedchamber. Calling for his man, he took advantage of a refreshing bath and allowed himself to be dressed in the casual country elegance that took all
of his valet's efforts to create, and then dismissed the servant.

He had already missed the breakfast buffet and it still lacked two hours to luncheon, although he couldn't have forced a single forkful of food past his firmly compressed lips. His whole mind, his entire being, was concentrating on discovering some way to ferret out the murderer and then slowly, carefully, take the bastard apart bit by satisfying bit.

But how was he to succeed now when to date they had all been failing so miserably? There were no new clues, only a new crime; a crime that cast into the shade the plot to discredit his name. If he had been told a fortnight ago that there was a single thing on the earth that mattered more than his reputation, he would have laughed at the absurdity of anything taking precedence over his pride in his lineage.

But now he had learned, through bitter experience, the folly of his previous values. If he could trade all his good name and blue-blooded ancestors for Lucy's safety, he would do so without a blink. All that mattered to him, all that gave him reason to draw breath, was wrapped up in the slim young girl lying injured and vulnerable in her chamber down the hallway.

He had thought over his options as dawn broke over the countryside, and he had decided, not without regret, that the only person, besides Rachel and Deirdre, that he could trust to stand his ally was Tristan Rule—not because he was about to accept the man on blind faith, but because he had been out of the country during the time the scandal broke.

Tristan had a reputation for his intelligence, his loyalty to his friends and his country, his dogged determination. That these attributes could, according to what he had learned from Rachel, also lead Rule to pigheadedness, single-minded pursuit of his own peculiar interpretation of justice, and his well-earned nickname of “Ruthless Rule” was not something he had the luxury of refining on at the moment.

Thorpe was just about to ring for a servant, sending him off with the request that Lord Rule join him in his chambers, when a slight scratching at his chamber door caught his attention. Crossing to the door as quietly as possible, he flung it open in order to surprise whoever was eavesdropping outside.

No one was there. He leaned his head out the door to check the hallway, which was empty of servants or guests, and then his attention was brought closer to the ground. Sitting on his haunches at his lordship's feet was a small brown furry creature, a jaunty red cap pushed down over his ears.

“Bartholomew!” Julian chuckled. “What mischief are you up to this time?” Leaning down to scoop the smiling, chattering monkey into his arms, Thorpe stepped back into his chamber and closed the door.

It would have surprised all who might have been witness to Thorpe's warm reception of the monkey—all but the earl's long-suffering valet, that is, who had spent many an hour brushing stubborn monkey hairs from his master's dressing gown—to know that Bartholomew was a frequent guest in his lordship's private chamber.

Bartholomew was loyal to his new mistress, but perhaps because the creature was accustomed to a male master, he had made it a point to seek Thorpe out. Julian, striving with all his might to become a more open, generous sort of soul, had begun his association with Bartholomew as a gesture of his good intentions, and then pursued the acquaintance when the little monkey, who was quite an affectionate monster, slowly wormed his way into the earl's heart.

It followed most naturally that Julian, rather than Lucy, became the recipient of the items gleaned from Bartholomew's latest foraging expeditions. Lucy, who had not told Julian of Bartholomew's little trick for fear the creature would be punished or even expelled from Hillcrest, had only silently rejoiced when the monkey stopped bringing her thimbles, diamond earrings, and golden guineas.

For his part, Julian saw no reason to inform Lucy of her new pet's larcenous tendencies. All in all, for Bartholomew at least, it made for a satisfying resolution. For the rest of the household, it mattered little either way, for Julian had made it a practice to leave anything of value out in the open where its owners could find it, thinking the item had been merely mislaid, and he still could fill a hatbox with the other miscellaneous booty, so that Bartholomew could play with his treasures during his daily visits.