A Worthy Wife (19 page)

One of the new footmen directed him to the parlor, where Aunt Ellenette babbled about headstrong misses—Aurora or Brianne, he couldn’t tell—and Frederick predicting trouble in the coach, which almost had Kenyon rushing for the stables. Then he reminded himself that Frederick was always foretelling doom, from spoiled food to the end of the world, so the earl decided
to ignore Aunt Ellenette’s prattling, but not her complaints that they never had fresh oranges anymore. He went on to the conservatory, with its fountains and forcing houses and flora from around the globe. His mother’s pride and joy, it was maintained in her memory.

His mother would not have recognized the place. It was overrun with creatures with fins or flippers or fur or feathers—in basins and buckets and his copper bathtub, with a splinted-wing swan in the ornamental fountain. Any number of oddities swam in jars, and one he’d hoped never to see again was swinging from the branches of an orange tree, explaining the lack of fruit. He removed his spectacles, for some sights were better not to see. Oddest of all, perhaps, were his new aunt and uncle by marriage. They had no idea where Aurora had gone, or why, just that it had something to do with Mrs. Podell. They were not the least concerned.

“Oh, our Aurora can do anything she sets her mind to.” And no, they had not heard from Lord Phelan since he’d left Bath, but they had brought Aurora’s mother’s letters, peculiar as the request had been. Mr. McPhee did offer to gather leeches in case Christopher needed purifying, but the poor lad had lost so much blood it was a miracle he was still alive, so Kenyon politely declined. Mrs. McPhee offered some mold she’d been growing. He declined that also, with another shudder, so the two turned their backs on him as if he were a servant and resumed their rapt study of some new larva they were hatching out—in what looked very much like his shaving mug.

He could do without his monogrammed mug, but there had better be another bathtub upstairs, Kenyon seethed. After the long, dusty journey, traveling slowly so as not to reopen Kit’s wound, the earl wanted a bath and he wanted his wife, blast her! He hadn’t thought of much else these weeks of worrying, or the long nights staying up by Kit’s bedside. The worst was over, although Kit had lost his arm and still had bouts of fever and delirium, but the doctors were confident he would recover. They could go home. The closer Kenyon got to Aurora, the more he wanted to be close to her, despite
his scruples, despite his good intentions, despite the uncertainties. He wanted his wife, by Jupiter.

Everyone else thought they were married. Damn, they might as well be, and the hell with his doubts. He was just suspicious after Genevieve, that was all, Kenyon told himself. He’d learn to trust again, and Aurora would learn to accept his attentions. They would be husband and wife in truth, he decided—as soon as she came home.

Unless she’d left him already. Thunderation, she could not have run off, could she? But she wouldn’t have left her relatives here, nor the boy, Ned. Hell, she wouldn’t have taken Brianne with her if she were making an elopement or an escape.

The devil take it, he shouldn’t have left her. If he couldn’t take her with him to fetch his brother—and no woman should see what he’d seen—he should have found someone in London to guide her, to protect her, his innocent bride. Or he should have insisted she return to her own family in Bath, eccentric as they were. They loved her and had her best interests at heart. Instead, he had sent her to Derby, where he himself could never bear to stay above a week at a time. How could he suppose Aurora would handle Aunt Ellenette’s flights or Brianne’s fits and starts? Why, he wouldn’t be surprised if his sister was dragging his countess off to join a band of Gypsies—or a traveling circus.

Lud, he was tired. All Kenyon wanted to do was to rest his eyes on his wife’s angel’s face. Instead, he saw Brianne’s hatchet-faced maid, arms crossed over her bony chest. She was the one who, sniffing in disapproval, informed him that the two most bacon-brained females he knew were out hunting for a third. He’d disown both of them, he swore. He’d have to get into the carriage again and go looking, for who knew what trouble two wantwits would get into. Ned raced in from the stable yard, nearly mowing Kenyon down on the stairs to his bedroom. The boy claimed to know just where the ladies had gone, and was anxious to go find them, too.

“It ain’t…It isn’t right m’lady went off without me. Who knows what can happen to two gentry morts on their own?”

Who knew, indeed? Ned didn’t mention he wanted a day off from school, and Kenyon didn’t mention Gypsies or traveling circuses. They’d go tomorrow, though.

First he wanted a bath and a meal and a rest. He opened the master’s chamber and grabbed for his quizzing glass just before he would have tripped over a new footstool. Damn, she’d rearranged his bedroom! Was there no end to her interference?

But his man, Tarlow, was beaming. “No more carrying buckets of hot water, my lord. We have plumbing.”

Soaking in the new porcelain tub in the new bathing room, Kenyon decided he’d forgive his wife anything—except leaving him.

After a fine dinner he sent compliments to the cook. They had a new stove, also, it seemed. He looked in on Christopher, who was weak and wan but happy to be home, except that Aunt Ellenette had spilled his soup down his nightshirt, trying to feed him, and Frederick had jumped on the bed to lick it up, jarring his wound. No, Kit didn’t want one of the maids to come, to shower him with pity or to shrink back at the sight of his scars. The maids would get used to him, Kenyon told his brother, and the scars would heal. He only hoped the invisible scars would also diminish.

Kenyon fed his brother, only spilling a little, wishing again that Aurora were here. She would know how to mend Kit’s inner wounds. As bighearted as she’d proven to be, his wife would never cringe. She might lose her supper afterward, but Christopher would never suspect. Or was he pinning too much hope on such a slip of a girl? Kenyon did not know, and wouldn’t till the infuriating female came home.

Soon, he hoped. Let it be soon.

Chapter Nineteen

Manners pave the rocky paths of social interaction. They also throw up roadblocks. Out of politeness, the earl agreed to a hand of whist with his McPhee guests and Aunt Ellenette, although he would rather be in bed, with his wife or not. Aurora’s relatives had asked, out of politeness, thinking they should not abandon their new nephew for their laboratory, not on his first night back. And Aunt Ellenette agreed, out of politeness, although she had no head for cards.

Or anything else, her partner, the earl, recalled after two hands, during which she consulted over every discard with the fattest dog he’d ever seen, and the worst cardplayer. As host, he could not desert his guests; as winners, the McPhees could not withdraw; as he was comfortable on his mistress’s lap, Frederick growled when anyone made a move to leave. At last the tea tray arrived, which interested Frederick more than the cards, so they could all take refreshment then, feigning yawns, seek their own beds or bugs or boxes of bonbons.

Lord Windham checked on his brother one more time, relieved to find Christopher sound asleep and cool to the touch. One of the footmen was sitting by the bedside, ready to fetch the earl or the physician if need be. Kenyon could finally retire to his cold, lonely, empty bed. He pounded his pillows; he threw off the top blanket. He rolled onto his stomach, then curled on his side, then lay flat on his back, arms and legs spread-eagled, staring at the ceiling.
Bah!
He got up and paced.

One of his routes took him past the door that connected to the countess’s chamber. He cracked the door, thinking he might as well see what changes Aurora had
made there, but the room was in darkness, and cold besides. With no Lady Windham at home, the servants had not lit the fire, so the earl did, just in case. Soon he could see that his wife had made her mark here also, with pastel colors instead of the maroons and golds Genevieve had preferred, less furniture, and fewer knick-knacks on every surface. A man wouldn’t have to fear breaking something fragile every time he stretched, or left his spectacles behind. One of the few decorations was a miniature portrait on the dressing table. Her parents, perhaps? A similarity to her mother ought to quiet some of his qualms. Podell? The fire needed more kindling; the bounder’s picture would do nicely. The portrait, he was touched to see, was of himself, the miniature his mother used to have on her nightstand. Lord, he’d been young. He wondered where Aurora had found it, and why she’d placed it in her bedroom. Since there were no pins stuck in it, he chose to see the portrait as a hopeful sign.

He wandered around, touching this pillow and that book, imagining he could smell the lilac scent she usually wore. Feeling foolish, he even opened the doors to her clothespress, just to make sure she’d left most of her things behind, he told himself. He was not spying. Besides, a husband had the right, if not the duty, to oversee his wife’s activities. Then he saw the large portmanteau on the wardrobe floor, filled with stacks and stacks of letters. They had to be Elizabeth Halle’s, the ones that the McPhees had brought. Kenyon dragged them over to the chair by the fire without a moment’s hesitation. Hell, she had to have read his mail to go haring off to Lancashire and Mr. Benton. Why, she was likely wining and dining at the wealthy mine owner’s house this very minute, if his sister had not convinced her to detour to an inn nearer the shops. The promise of spending more of Kenyon’s blunt would have been the only enticement for Brianne to enter a tradesman’s home.

Dash it, who knew what kind of low company they’d be introduced to at Benton’s place? For that matter, they could have been set upon on the road. Two well-dressed women in a crested carriage were an easy mark for
thieves—or those roving bands of bitter, unemployed veterans. And there had been labor unrest near Manchester just recently. Kenyon had to laugh at himself; he’d be envisioning white slave traders next. They were safe, and he was going to read the letters. Lud, Elizabeth Halle must never have thrown away anything.

He was asleep in the chair in Aurora’s room when he heard the commotion. Fearing that his brother must be having a relapse and no one knew where to find him, Kenyon dashed out into the hall. The noise was coming from below, though, from the entry hall. His wife was home! Pausing only to tighten the sash of his dressing gown, the earl started down the stairs. He paused midway, his mouth hanging open.

A man was hanging on his wife’s arm—a handsome young man, foxed by the look of him and the way he leaned on Aurora. Brianne was on the sot’s other side, and a carrot-topped waif trailed behind, clasping a large basket in her arms. A skinny dog was whining beside a box a maid was carrying in. Kenyon didn’t even want to think of what might be in the box, or the basket, or in his wife’s brain, bringing this motley group home in the middle of the night.

It was a miracle he didn’t fall the rest of the way down the stairs, because he hadn’t taken his eyes, or his spectacles, off his wife and the clodpole who was cuddling her in her husband’s own home. The dastard would be dead by morning. Thinking that he must look like a trout tossed on the riverbank, Kenyon snapped his mouth shut and started across the entry hall, seeing red. No, he was seeing blood. Dear Lord, they were all muddied and rumpled and bloodstained. The redhead was weeping, and the maid’s skirts were torn, and his wife—hell, there was blood on his wife.

Kenyon shouted for the butler, his valet, the housekeeper, and Kit’s doctor, and anyone else who was neither deaf nor deceased. Servants in all states of undress came running, and men raced in from the stables, too, some with pitchforks in case the house was under attack, and some with buckets of water, in case of fire. The dog was barking, something was screeching from the basket,
and the redhead was still weeping in Mrs. McPhee’s arms. Two footmen tried to assist the young man, with Brianne screaming at them to be careful, by Jupiter, and his wife— His wife was looking at him as if she’d caught her first glimpse of land after the Flood.

Kenyon waded through the mess, issuing orders as he went for spare bedrooms, for the surgeon, for the dog to be taken to the stables in Ned’s charge, for hot water and tea and fires, and for everyone else to go back to bed. Then he grabbed Aurora’s arm and dragged her into the nearest room.

He meant to shout at her for worrying him so, and getting into so much trouble. He meant to inspect every inch of her for injury. He meant a lot of things, but all he did was open his arms, and she flew into them. He hugged and rocked and comforted her, then realized she was hugging and rocking and comforting him, too. Zeus, it felt so right.

Aurora felt safe, protected, cherished. Kenyon cared. She never wanted to leave the sanctity of his arms. Now she was home.

Actually, she was in the broom closet, but who cared? When a mop handle poked him in the back, Kenyon did. “Come, my love, you’ll be more comfortable upstairs. You can tell me your adventures there.” And he could better tell her on the bed how much he’d been missing her.

First she needed a bath.

While his wife was washing, Kenyon thought he’d get a start on unraveling this latest mare’s nest. Hurriedly dressing in shirt and pants, he quickly checked to make sure his brother had not been disturbed, but the footman whispered that all was well.

Well? With who knew what being welcomed at Windrush? Horse whiskers.

The surgeon, stepping out of the handsome stranger’s room, confirmed having stitched a gunshot wound, as Kenyon had surmised. The doctor had administered laudanum, he reported, so there was no questioning of the man this night. The young lady in the next room had
also been dosed, for agitation of the nerves, as well as Lady Windham’s maid.