A Hint of Scandal (7 page)

D
espite occasional moments of lucidness, the stranger—or Mr. West, as she now thought of him—still had a raging fever the next morning.

Bella fretted over him, a frown of concern often between her brows as she sponged cool water over his flushed, hot skin.

Dr. Pearce arrived early, more out of curiosity than to actually do anything, Bella suspected. He offered little help.

“I don’t think cupping him would help. He’s lost enough blood as it is. The fever will either break or not.” The doctor shrugged. “Give him a few more drops of laudanum when he wakes.”

“But the longer the fever lasts, the weaker he becomes,” she had protested to the doctor. “Surely there is something we can do.”

“Only time will tell if he can survive this,” the doctor stated flatly before taking his leave.

Bella continued to care for the man as best she could. Sometimes he was delirious and hard for her to handle. During these times she would speak to him softly. Bella had noticed on previous nights that her voice seemed to calm him.

Papa and Tommy did their best to be helpful, though it did little good. The man only fussed when anyone but Bella tried to tend to him.

Uncle David and Aunt Elizabeth called, but they brought no news of the man’s identity.

“No one in three villages is aware of a missing Mr. West,” her uncle had lamented.

It was not surprising to Bella that after the first few days, Triss found the house a dead bore, as she had put it, and had not visited since.

So the hours blended and Bella continued to pray that the man would soon be better.

Later that night, during the wee hours, when he was quiet, Bella retrieved the letters from the pocket of his greatcoat. Unfolding the vellum, Bella reread the tryst notes and wondered which lady he had chosen to meet.

“I hope you did not choose the one who uses too many exclamation points,” she said to her patient, smiling a little at her own absurdity in the quiet room.

For some reason that she could not identify, Bella had not shown anyone else the notes.

Refolding the notes and placing them back in the pocket, Bella looked at her patient closely, almost willing him to heal. Her gaze traveled over his angular features, down his aquiline nose to his square jaw.

“My, you are growing quite a beard,” she observed.

He did not move, and she continued to scan his features.

His lips were perfectly sculpted. It was a mouth that revealed sensitivity and kindness, she mused.

She moved down to his broad chest and felt an irrepressible blush coming to her cheeks. Bella had never come into such intimate contact with a man close to her own age. She found it rather disconcerting. There in the shadowy dimness of her room, Bella found herself thinking that her patient looked like one of the heroes in the storybooks she loved to read.
Did he look more like Sir Galahad or Apollo?
she wondered, tilting her head to the side so that she could examine him more closely.

She wondered if he liked poetry. Or history?

His hands looked strong and capable. The fingers, splayed on top of the blanket above his waist, were long and bore no calluses. She decided they were handsome hands.
Certainly not artistic like Robert’s
, she thought quickly in defense of her intended,
but still handsome.
Bella
made a face, recalling that Papa had once said Robert’s hands looked weak.

As she grew sleepy, her thoughts drifted to Robert. She wondered when he would officially propose to her. Though there had been definite discussions regarding a future together, Robert had not approached Papa yet to ask for her hand. Bella suspected Robert knew that Papa and her uncle did not hold him in high regard.

Leaning back in the rocking chair, Bella gave in to her favorite pleasure of mentally redecorating Robert’s home. Oakdale was a large, well-appointed house that boasted not less than eight bedchambers.

Unfortunately Oakdale was sadly out of style. And no wonder, since it had not been redecorated for more than thirty years. Robert’s mother had been a new bride when she had arrived at Oakdale. Robert’s father had died shortly after Robert’s birth, and Mrs. Fortiscue had not wanted to change anything about the place. The gardens were beautiful, though, if overgrown. And the stables had been recently refurbished.

Bella thought it would be lovely to be mistress of her own home. “After all,” she said aloud to her patient, “I am almost five and twenty. It is time that I have a home of my own.”

Westlake showed no sign of hearing her.

She also wanted a family. It was her opinion that Robert, with his good-natured gentleness, would make a very fine father.

It pleased her that she and Robert were so well suited. But what she liked best about him was that he did not mind that she enjoyed reading so much.

Over the years, a number of young men whose families were well known to hers had paid court to her. But she had ultimately declined them all because they had thought her love of learning was something to be discouraged.

Triss had often told her that gentlemen had an aversion to bluestockings. “No matter how pretty you are, Bella, no man wants a wife who is smarter than he is. You are in danger of remaining on the shelf,” Triss had warned. But Bella had paid her cousin no mind.

Robert was different. He seemed to like the fact that
Bella was intelligent and sensible. He had often paid her this compliment during their walks to church.

It pleased Bella that she and Robert had practically grown up together. It was important to her that she wed someone from Mabry Green. She loved the tiny village, and felt a certain satisfaction, and even a little pride, in the fact that she was invited to all social functions, and that her opinions on any number of subjects were well respected.

Being the only practical one in her family had caused Bella to appreciate peace and normalcy, and Robert had often stated that he desired those qualities also. So it seemed to Bella that Mr. Fortiscue was the wisest choice she could make. It would have been even better to actually be in love with Robert Fortiscue, but one could not have everything, she mused philosophically.

Looking back down at her patient, Bella wondered if he was married. If he was, she certainly pitied his wife. How horrible it would be to have no trust in one’s husband, to always worry about him disappearing to meet ladies in atriums.

No, thank you
, she thought as her lids grew heavy.
I will take trustworthy Robert over a philanderer any day.

Sometime later Bella jerked awake, almost falling off the chair as it rocked forward.

The candle had burned itself out, and the fire in the grate was now only glowing embers.

Bella held still for a moment, listening intently for an indication of what had awakened her.

“Johnny, into the woods.” The man’s voice was a harsh rasp. “I must reach Henry.”

Bella instinctively reached out to him in the dark. Her hand touched his upper arm as he was trying to push the blanket aside. His skin felt hot to her touch.

As quickly as she could, Bella reached over, fumbling to find the nightstand. When she did, she located the matches and lit the lantern. “Oh, sir, your fever is raging,” she said in exhausted dismay.

If anyone else had been in the room with her, they would have heard the fear in her voice. In the dim lamplight she saw beads of moisture on his forehead and upper lip. His
cheeks were flushed and his legs moved restlessly under the covers.

Pouring a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand, Bella moved to sit on the bed next to him. As gently as she could, she slipped an arm under his shoulder and lifted him so that she could put the cup to his lips.

“You must drink. It will help your fever,” she whispered urgently, knowing that it would be extremely dangerous if his fever lasted too long.

An appetizing aroma wafted up to the bedroom, rousing Westlake from his near-unconscious slumber. Shifting his head slightly on the soft pillow, he allowed his heavy lids to open slightly.

His sluggish thoughts drifted aimlessly, as his gaze took in the unfamiliar room. It was odd, but he did not care a whit that he had no idea where he was.

How long he lay there, in a state of half wakefulness, he did not know.

The appetizing aroma again reached his senses. His thoughts began to clear when he realized he was ravenously hungry.

Stretching like a big cat, he rolled onto to his side, until a searing pain in his shoulder halted his movement. He looked down at his left shoulder and frowned curiously at the bandages he saw.

Looking around the room, Westlake was suddenly and inexplicably disappointed to see that the low rocking chair near the bed was empty.

Tentatively he sat up, swung his legs around, and placed his feet on the floor. Immediately a wave of dizziness engulfed him. Feeling as if he were about to faint, Westlake wonder if he had drunk too much whiskey the night before.

No, that was not right, he thought as his brain cleared a little.

Slowly the events of that wild night, the night he had received the note about Henry’s accident, came back to him.

He recalled the two horses emerging from the forest, and the smoking pistol. Gritting his teeth against the pain and dizziness, Westlake
rose unsteadily, but with determination, to his feet. He needed to find out where he was. He needed to find out about Henry.

Standing next to the bed, swaying slightly, he looked again at the rocking chair. The image of a pair of darkly fringed blue eyes and a long dark braid came to mind.

His nurse. The young woman who put cool compresses on his forehead and fed him broth. The images flashed through his mind. She had spoken to him in a soothing, melodious, unforgettable voice.

“Damn,” he said to himself, breathing as hard as if he had just finished a fencing lesson. He took a couple of wobbly steps toward a stand that held a pitcher of water and a basin.

He put his hand on the bureau next to the stand as his knees threatened to give way. He looked around the room for his boots and clothes and caught sight of them on the chest at the foot of the bed. After a moment he attempted to wash his face with his right hand. Though it was difficult to perform his ablutions with only his right hand, the cold water helped clear his head. There was no mirror in the small room, but by running his hand over his jaw he could tell he was badly in need of a shave.

A wave of sickening dizziness swept over him again and he moved back to sit down on the unmade bed. Breathing as slowly as he could, he waited for the dizziness to recede before picking up a freshly laundered white shirt and his breeches from the end of the bed. After wrestling with the breeches for some time, he finally got them on over his small clothes. He rested for a few moments before slipping his left arm into the sleeve of the lawn shirt. Taking a very deep breath, Westlake decided not to even attempt tying his neckcloth. Picking up one of his Hessian boots, he tried, one-handed, to pull the boot onto his left foot. After only a few moments exertion, Westlake’s hand shook with exhaustion, and he still had not managed to pull the boot on.

A self-disgusted scowl formed a crease on his brow. He let another moment pass before he held his breath and redoubled his efforts to pull the boot on. Grimacing, he continued to hold the boot in his right hand while trying to push his foot in.

“You vexing man!”

The boot went flying across the room at the sound of the startled, angry voice.

Westlake snapped his head up to see a dark-haired, blue-eyed young woman standing in the doorway. Even with her angry tone, Westlake recognized her voice: She was the one who had nursed him.

He did not move and did not try to retrieve his boot. He just looked at her.

She was disarmingly lovely. He could not recall when he had last seen such an exquisite creature. The deep garnet of her simple gown flattered the flawless ivory of her complexion. Her dark hair, almost black, was pulled back in a simple twist. The style showed her fine, deep blue eyes to great advantage—beautiful, revealing eyes that were now gazing at him with a touch of anger and a great deal of concern.

A surge of gratitude swelled in his heart. This beautiful young woman had nursed him, had in all likelihood saved his life. He had so many questions he wanted to ask her, but first he needed to thank her. Paying no heed to the pain and dizziness, he rose as steadily as he could to his feet.

“Oh, sir, please do not get up!” Bella moved swiftly toward him, appalled at seeing him almost dressed and trying to stand.

“I do not have the words to express my gratitude—”

“Never mind that.” Bella so forgot her usual manners in her distress that she uncharacteristically interrupted him. “Please sit down before you fall down. And please tell me who you are and where we can reach your people. I am sure they are worried sick.”

Westlake remained standing. It went against his innate good manners to sit down while a lady remained standing.

“Yes, I am sure you are correct. I am Westlake. My home is Autley. I left there when I received word that my nephew, who lives in Tilbourne, was injured. Two blackguards set upon my groom and me. I was shot, but I trust my groom got away safely and returned to Autley,” he explained, growing almost breathless by the end of his explanation.

“Westlake!” Bella exclaimed. “But I thought your name
was Mr. West.” Bella put a hand to her head and laughed, the days of pent-up tension finally finding a release.

“Mr. West.” She laughed again, shaking her head. “Westlake. And you live at Autley.…” The smile on her lips faded as the words sank in. “Autley.” Though she had never had the pleasure of visiting the place, Bella was familiar with the vast estate of the Duke of Westlake. Everyone in Kent was familiar with Autley, for it was considered one of the finest estates in all of Britain.

The Duke of Westlake.

“Good heavens!” Bella looked up at him in complete surprise. It was not until she saw him sway slightly that Bella caught hold of herself.

“Forgive me, your grace. But you must sit down. My name is Arabella Tichley, and you have been at our house for four days. My uncle, Lord Penninghurst, has men out looking for anyone who might have missed you. We shall send word immediately to your people at Autley.”