Virtue and Vice (35 page)

Belinda wrinkled her brow in thought. “She wouldn’t have taken the carriage all the way to Cornwall, as she promised to have it sent back to me, post haste. If she took it to Cornwall it would be days ere it was returned.” She shook her head, as though coming to a swift conclusion. “She either went by ship or she took a mount.”

Lucien stalked from the study. “I’ll check with a stable hand.”

A sound of surprise echoed from the foyer, and Ram and Belinda rushed out of the study. Lucien had opened the front door and the Beaumont carriage was sitting in the street. When the driver climbed down from his perch and raised his hand in greeting without opening either door, it was apparent Izzy wasn’t inside.

Ram pushed ahead of his friend and cornered the poor driver, interrogating him on the spot. “Where did you take my wife?”

The harried man doffed his cap quickly, clearly uncomfortable to be confronted so. “I took her to Portsmouth, as she directed, sir. She’s me mistress, I couldn’t say her nay. When I returned to the Beaumont residence a servant sent me here, told me Miss Belinda had need of the carriage.”

Ram fought to grasp hold of his churning emotions. At least he knew
where
she’d gone for a certainty, now. Knowing put his mind at rest a tiny bit.

“Of course you couldn’t refuse her, Laurence. You did nothing wrong.” Belinda said quickly, trying to put the driver at ease. “You know how stubborn she can be,” she added with a reassuring smile.

The grim look remained on the driver’s face and Ram grew alarmed. “Was she well when you left her?” he demanded.

Laurence shifted uncomfortably, looking quickly at Belinda and then back. Lucien immediately took her arm and drew her away despite her protest.

“Nay, milord. She was in a real bad way.”

Ram’s fear returned full force, snatching his breath. “Was she ill?”

“Nay.” The driver’s face tautened with anger and his eyes flashed. “Someone beat her, Milord. When she came out of the palace she couldn’t hardly walk. I had to carry her meself to the carriage.”

“What!” Rage flooded Ram so fast it rocked him on his feet. Behind him he heard Belinda’s horrified gasp. Ram’s mind flit about in every direction, looking for an explanation until the obvious occurred to him.

Huntley.

Ram was torn between needing to go to Izzy and the desire to return to White Hall and slit Huntley’s throat. Izzy’s need won out, as it always would, but if Huntley survived his bout of Smallpox, he wouldn’t live long enough to celebrate.

He looked the driver in the eye. “Are the horses up for the ride to take Miss Spencer to Eric Beaumont’s house?”

He hadn’t realized Belinda had stepped beside him. This time her gasp was almost directly in his ear.

“I will not abandon Izzy now, my lord. I’ll send word to Izzy’s parents about the circumstances, but I intend to be in Cornwall with as little delay as possible.”

“Belinda, Izzy might be very ill. And you could become ill as well.”

“Think you that would prevent me from caring for her?”

Ram met Lucien’s gaze over Belinda’s dark blond hair, and a look of understanding passed between them. Lucien would keep Belinda away as long as possible.

“I’m riding out by horse. You can’t keep up. If you are determined to come to Cornwall, I ask that you allow Lucien to accompany you in his carriage.”

She spun around to face the man who stood mere feet from her. Now that Ram thought about it, Lucien hadn’t let Belinda out of his sight throughout the day. Not that now was the time to question Lucien’s intentions. Now Ram needed his friend’s help to keep Belinda out of the way.

“Think of your reputation, Miss Spencer. We’d be alone in the carriage together for two days.”

“To the devil with my reputation, Lord Lucien. My cousin needs me.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll bring Meg.”

He nodded tersely. “I’ll escort you, then.”

“I’ll discover how dire the circumstances are and I’ll send a messenger to meet you on the road. Promise me you’ll go to Chesworth House until you hear from me that it’s safe to come to Rendstell Manor?”

Belinda nodded. She wasn’t happy with the plan, but neither he nor Lucien would allow her access to Izzy if she were truly ill. Smallpox was a wretched disease, and not for the faint of heart.

A stable hand brought out a prancing Mercury, and Ram leaped upon him, eager to be on his way. .

“God speed, Ramsay.” Lucien said quietly.

Ram nodded in Lucien’s direction, then whirled Mercury toward the road, and headed for Cornwall as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his feet.

Chapter 31

It was so hot in the carriage. On the long trip by water from Portsmouth to Fowey, Izzy spent most of it in the tiny cabin she’d paid for, lying stiffly on her side in the thin berth, wracked with pain. When it became too much to bear she’d gone up to the deck where there was room to stand, grasping the railing of the ferry for support, ignoring the stares of the other passengers. She’d not been able to glimpse her face since leaving the palace, but if the pain was any indication she must look a fright. But at no point during the journey had she become physically ill.

As soon as she’d settled in the carriage hired to take her to Padstow, the heat suffocated her.

Was this Smallpox?

Nay, it wasn’t possible. A full day hadn’t even passed since she’d gone to White Hall. It was far too early to show symptoms the illness. Wasn’t it?

So why then was she so bloody hot?

She loosened her clothing as much as was decent, but still she burned.

With trembling fingers, she carefully felt her face for the telltale signs of forming pustules. There were none.

It seemed to take forever to reach Padstow. Finally, exhausted beyond measure and wracked with pain from the bumpy journey, she accepted the driver’s help to alight. Squaring her shoulders, she went in search of transportation for the final leg of her journey. Night was falling by the time she found a driver willing to take her so far. She couldn’t blame him- she probably looked more like a beggar than a noblewoman in her dirty and askew clothing, with her hair hanging in utter disarray, her face swollen and likely bruised.

If the carriage from Fowey had been stifling, the hackney to Padstow was freezing, even in the balmy warmth of the late summer night. Shivers wracked her and an ache suffused her entire body that had nothing to do with the pain inflicted at Paul’s hands. Her head pounded fiercely while her stomach spasmed with nausea.

There was no more pretending all was fine. She was ill. The interior of the carriage spun before her eyes. She held onto consciousness by a tenuous thread. She wouldn’t make it to her parent’s home before she passed out.

Knocking weakly on the ceiling of the carriage, she waited for the driver to dismount. “Aye, miss?” he cast her a dubious look.

“I’ve changed my destination. Please take me to Chesworth House.”

It was closer than Rendstell Manor. She grew more ill with each turn of the wheels, so it made more sense to stop at Ram’s home. She prayed the Earl and Ram’s sister weren’t in residence, for she didn’t wish to risk exposing anyone to her contagion. She would insist on being quarantined from the household and staff and she’d have to do for herself.

“As it pleases ye, mum.” He peered closely at her. “Are ye well?”

“I’m fine, only tired from the long journey.”

The look on his face told her he didn’t believe her in the least.

When the driver returned to his seat atop the hack and the horses started moving again, she eased onto her side on the cushion with a wince and wrapped her skirts around her as tightly as possible, shivering like a newly born kitten.

It was the longest journey of her life.

When the driver assisted her from the carriage and up the steps of Chesworth House, she’d never been happier to see anyone more than she was to see Hawthorne. His eyes widened with surprise that quickly turned to horror.

“Lady Royston! What happened? Were you set upon on the road?”

At least the hours of travel had afforded her time to prepare a story. “Nay, Hawthorne. I fell and hit my face on a desk. Aside from that I’m afraid I’m under the weather.” She sidestepped his attempt to take her arm to lend assistance. “Would you kindly pay my driver? I shall only stay the evening and then I’ll journey on to my father’s manor, if that’s acceptable to you.”

“Of course it is, Lady Royston! This is your home!”

She winced. So, Ram hadn’t sent word of their separation to his country staff yet. “Is the Earl in residence?”

“Nay, my lady. He’s in Bodmin.”

“And Lady Juliana?”

“She’s visiting a friend for a fortnight.”

Izzy sighed with relief.

“I’ll send a maid to assist you in any way you need, my lady. You look…exhausted.”

“Nay, Hawthorne!” her sharp tone took the man aback. “I don’t want anyone exposed to whatever ailment I suffer from. If you’ll have a maid bring up a tray, some water, and some extra blankets, while I wait here, I shall care for myself for the evening.”

He seemed inclined to argue, but capitulated with a tight nod when she made it clear she wouldn’t accept any other arrangement.

Within moments, Hawthorne’s orders had been repeated down the chain of command. She sat in the foyer for a few minutes, wanting all of the staff well out of the way before she went to her chamber.

She watched Hawthorne pay the driver, trying to keep her chattering teeth from giving away how seriously ill she truly was.

She’d have to send word to her parents or Belinda in the morning. Surely Papa wouldn’t make her leave while she was ill. They’d have to find her a nurse who’d been exposed to Smallpox, who could see to her needs. Until then, she need only take care of herself for this one evening.

She resisted the urge to weep. The task ahead seemed colossal.

When Hawthorne informed her that the chamber was ready, she went to the stairs, put her hand on the banister, and looked up at the long flight of stairs in dismay. The first time she climbed these stairs was a harrowing journey. This was far worse. By the time she reached the bedchamber door, she had to cling to the doorknob to remain upright. The chamber was as she’d asked it to be prepared, and left intact much the same way as when she’d seen it last. Memories crowded her, but she forced them away.

It was so cold despite the fire burning cheerfully in the hearth. She didn’t want to remove her clothing, but it would be warmer under the blankets. The maid would have put a warming brick in the bed for her comfort.

It took the last of the energy she possessed to peel the soiled gown from her sweat soaked body and slide into bed wearing her chemise. Cold then hot, hot then cold. She shivered so hard, her teeth chattered together.

Never even using the water to cleanse herself of the grime of her journey, nor picking any food off the tray, or even examining her face in the mirror, she climbed weakly under the covers, then faded into blessed oblivion.

***

The cold was so dense, no warmth could penetrate it. Icy tendrils crept over her body like clinging vines. Her limbs were too frozen to lift. Her body, piled under mounds of blankets, continued to shiver uncontrollably.

Sleep was more torment than relief, as discomfort held her in its greedy grasp.

Is this death?

And then, almost as suddenly as the cold arrived, it departed. There was a presence in the bed, something warm and solid. The heat radiating off of it seeped into her skin, into her very bones, lending the warmth she so desperately needed.  Had a maid brought another warming brick whilst she slept?

She turned toward the source of heat and found herself bound by arms so solid they could have been hewn of iron. A bare chest, a fine dusting of hair across the broad width of it that felt so familiar beneath her cheek.

Ah. What torment, that she should dream of Ram now, when it was the flesh and blood man she needed most. She wept in despair.

“Hush, Izzy. Don’t cry. All will be well. Tell me what you need.” A hand stroked her forehead.

The Ram of her dreams was speaking to her.
What sweet agony.
She couldn’t say the things she most needed to say to her real husband, so she would say them to the dream version. She might never have a chance again.

“I need Ramsay.” She choked on a sob. “I love him so much,” she whispered, then she cried harder, clasping at the arms of her vision. The dream version of Ram stiffened for the briefest of moments, then held her tighter. His warm arms enveloped her, sharing his heat when she needed it most.

Cocooned in warmth, her tears slowly subsided and she drifted back into oblivion.

***

Though it was the dead of night and no light touched the chamber, Ram stared at the woman in his arms, trying to make out any discernible feature. He was starved for the sight of her, though it had barely been two days since he’d seen her last.

Remorse choked him for the way he’d treated her then, for letting her think he could ever use her like a common whore, and for rejecting her avowal of love. He already knew from her actions that she loved him, but hearing her fever induced declaration would have brought him to his knees had he not been lying in the bed beside her. Sweet Jesus.

Tucking the blankets more tightly around her, he leaned against the headboard, Izzy reclining on his chest, and ran his hand over her hair, exhausted beyond measure. He’d not had even one moment of rest since he’d left London, determined to overtake her on the road and confirm with his own eyes she was well. He’d stopped only to change mounts and leave instructions for Mercury to be brought home after the horse had been well rested and fed.

Ram hadn’t reckoned on Izzy’s choice to stop at Chesworth House, instead of traveling to her father’s home. He’d almost panicked when he’d arrived at the Beaumont country home, only to find she’d never made it there. But then, remembering her arrival in London, some instinct had sent him rushing to Chesworth.

The relief of finding her was short lived, and turned to dread when Hawthorne confirmed that not only had Laurence not exaggerated her state, but that she’d arrived ill in the night. Ram ordered the butler to send for a doctor at dawn’s first light, then sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Dread transformed to horror when he’d barged into the chamber they’d shared on their wedding night, only to find her shivering and delirious in the great bed. Unresponsive. He hadn’t wasted time even lighting a taper. He’d stripped to his breeches and climbed into bed, taking her into his arms to share his warmth.

Her shivering abated, but she moved restlessly against him, as if she couldn’t gain a comfortable position. He murmured calming words and stroked his hands lightly down her hair and arms. Finally, she shifted onto her side and draped herself across him, her soft breasts crushed against his chest, her head nestled beneath his chin, and her restlessness subsided.

Knowing he might not get the chance to rest during the day while he tended her, Ram shut his eyes. He could gain a few hours sleep before dawn. He forced all thoughts and fears away, until finally, sleep claimed him.

Ram jerked awake from a deep sleep, blinking hard, disoriented, until he remembered where he was. A glance toward the window revealed it was still night. Dawn hadn’t yet begun to break.

Izzy, still lying across his chest, kicked restlessly at the blankets as she mumbled and suddenly the heat radiating from her in waves buffeted him. Her fever now burned dangerously high.

He slid from the bed, heart pounding, and fumbled to light enough tapers to illuminate the room. He saw the tray a maid had left for her, along with a pitcher of water. As quickly as he could he rummaged for a washcloth, then scooped up the basin from the washstand along with the pitcher and returned to the bed.

He almost dropped it all when he saw Izzy’s face illuminated by candlelight.

“Christ!” he bit out. Fury kindled within him, driving away his horror. He set everything on a nightstand, then sat on the bed near her hip, staring down at her. Even through the sheen of sweat gathered on her skin, bruises stood out in stark contrast against her pale skin. Her eye had been blackened and the bruising continued across the delicate skin of her cheek, almost to her hairline. Another bruise, uglier and darker than the other, spread across her jaw, from beneath her ear to her chin. Ram’s hand trembled as he reached out to gently probe her jaw and cheek, looking for a break.

Why? Why had Huntley done this? What the hell happened between them?

Never in his life had Ram experienced such a driving need to kill. Still, he forced it aside with brutal intent. He couldn’t care for Izzy properly if his mind remained filled with rage and focused on Huntley.

He wet the washcloth and soaked it, then stroked it gently over her face, then down her neck, her arms, her legs. He trailed the cloth over her chest, and under her arms. Over and over he repeated the motion.

She grew restless again, kicking out with her feet, flailing her arms.

“Hush, Izzy, hush. I’m here,” he murmured, again and again.

He grew worried when, after he’d sponged her for at least an hour, she was no cooler to the touch. His worry turned to full-blown alarm when she started mumbling incoherently and her eyes rolled. He dropped the cloth and tore to the door, prepared to shout the house down, but as it turned out, there was no need. Hawthorne had pulled up a chair outside the chamber door. He jerked awake when Ram sent the slab of oak slamming against the wall.

“I need the bathing tub, filled with cold water, Hawthorne. Hurry. Knock and leave it outside the door. I’ll bring it in.”

Hawthorne’s face paled in concern, before he sprinted down the hall.

Ram returned to Izzy’s side and picked up the cloth, dipping it in the water and starting his ministrations again. As he listened to the sounds of the tub hauled across the second floor, he talked to her softly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll feel better soon. Hawthorne is drawing you a cool bath.”