Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1) (44 page)

“Oh, I know that,” she said a little bitterly. “I also know what happens when good luck deserts a man at last, and he faces ruin and disgrace.”

He frowned. “That does not happen to everyone. It will not happen to me.”

“How can you be sure? Fortunes quickly won have often been lost just as quickly.”

“I do not gamble more than I can afford to lose. At the beginning, years ago, there were times when I had to take great risks, but these days I have put aside enough to be secure, even if several ventures should go awry at once.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Why are we talking about business, Sophia?”

“I want to know more about you, and I believe business is an important part of you.”

“Yes, it is,” he admitted. “But it can hardly be of interest to you. Women find business boring, an unfortunate necessity to finance their gowns and jewels, but not something they want mentioned at the dinner table.”

Cherry had never minded talking about his business with Max. It should have been a warning sign when he stopped doing so.

“I heard that you are thinking of taking a wife,” she said idly. He recoiled and frowned. “How could you have heard that? From whom?”

His reaction made her feel the cold wind all of a sudden – what had she been thinking? She was only a momentary distraction, after all, some chance-met stranger, attractive enough for a short affair, nothing more.

And she had made a stupid slip. He must not learn that the information came from Prune, who had sat next to him at dinner the night before. “You know these little towns. If you mention something in front of three people, everyone will talk about it by the next day. As the buyer of this estate you are a person of great interest to many who are still strangers to you.”

“They should mind their own business. None of that has anything to do with you – with us. And I am not married yet, though it is true I plan to wed some eligible young lady within the year.” It should not hurt to hear his words; after all they hardly knew each other. What he said only confirmed her theory about his life and plans. It was as well to be recalled to her good sense, before she did something really stupid, even if it gave her a momentary pang. After all she had endured, what was one more disappointment?

“That means we should not meet or kiss,” she said. “Cannot you see that? Playing with another person’s emotions can easily lead to tragedy, and is an unworthy pastime for a gentleman or lady of honour. Not that it matters: I only came today to tell you goodbye. I shall be leaving this town in the near future, and you will never see me again. Mrs. Sophia Jones will cease to exist.”

He stood staring at her, wordlessly, breathing hard. Cherry tossed her head in irritation, remembering too late that she was wearing the wig. Fortunately it was securely pinned under the bonnet.

Since Durwent seemed disinclined to speak, wrestling with emotions she could only guess at, she added, “I wish you and your future wife, whoever she may be, all happiness as the master and mistress of Lobbock Manor. I am sorry I permitted liberties I should not have, and probably gave you a mistaken impression; but I am not the kind of woman who can be kept hidden, or unacknowledged. Farewell, Mr. Durwent.”

It detracted from her dramatic good-bye that the rain was still pouring down, even more heavily than before. Still, she had always had a strong constitution. The risk of pneumonia was small enough. She turned to leave.

“Stop!” He cried, blocking the exit of the folly. “I beg your pardon, Sophia – Mrs. Jones - if I have erred, and insulted you. That was certainly not my intention.”

“It is also quite immaterial, as I am leaving this town. By the time you move into Lobbock Manor, I shall be far away.”

“Because of me?” There was a strange look in his eyes. “Not for the world would I want to drive you away –“

“No, I was already planning to leave before we ever met. Your conscience may rest easy.”

“That is not likely. And it would never be easy if I allowed you to depart in this rain, and catch your death. Since you decree that we should part – and I admit it is for the best – I shall go myself.” He cast an eye on the clouds overhead. “In half an hour or less the rain should stop, I believe. It goes against the grain to leave you here all alone, but you leave me no choice. I am sorry that we should part like this, Mrs. Jones.”

So he was back to the more formal name. She made an elegant curtsy, and said nothing as he bowed and left, the rain immediately flattening his hair to his skull, and the pants and jacket to his muscles. She watched him recede through the trees, annoyed with herself for staring at his trim anatomy, like a weak-minded ninny. She had done the right thing. It could only lead to humiliation and heartache if she had let this misplaced attraction go any further.

But, Lord, could the man kiss. Where would she find another man with such mastery, whose kisses felt, as he’d said himself, exactly right?

Chapter 16

Jonathan did not return straight to the inn to change into dry clothes, as common sense might have dictated. He strode through the rain, under the trees, thinking dark incoherent thoughts, angry with himself and the red-haired woman for confusing him so. It was not until he reached the deserted saw mill that he became conscious of his sodden state. Just then the rain finally let up, but his boots made sloshing sounds and his shirt and linens were clinging to his equally wet skin. The wind which had driven off the remaining rain clouds was still strengthening. Jonathan was shivering by the time he finally arrived back at the inn.

He knew he should order a hot bath, but felt too dispirited for the effort, and contented himself with asking for a bowl of punch before climbing upstairs to his room.

When this warming drink arrived, he had dried himself off as best he could with the two thin linen towels, and dressed in fresh clothes. His supply of these was dwindling, but he could not bring himself to care just now.

“Would you also like to order dinner, Sir? It is already close to five,” the servant who brought the punch asked. Jonathan hesitated; his appetite had quite deserted him.

“I shall come down to the common room when I’m hungry.” He slipped the man a coin and served himself a large portion of the punch. It did not taste as good as he had hoped, for lack of lemons, but at least it was sweet and hot.

He sank down in the room’s one armchair. There was no reason, none at all, to feel guilty and confused. An attraction to a married woman was nothing unusual. In London it often meant the chance at a discreet and pleasurable affair, though Jonathan preferred to avoid entanglements with married women. His strict parents would have been shocked enough at his affairs with widows, or now and then, liaisons with expensive courtesans. Besides, you could never be sure that the supposedly complacent husband you had just cuckolded did not suddenly change his mind and challenge you to a duel. That would not only be ridiculous, but also bad for business.

Jonathan was slow to empty his cup. By the time he had finished, his head had begun to pound in a most unpleasant fashion, as though the hangover to be expected by indulging in several glasses of punch had decided to arrive prematurely.

He would lie down on the bed for an hour, until his head felt better. The prone position did not ameliorate the headache, however, and neither did closing his eyes. Surely he could not feel that bad from a mere hour out in the rain….?

***

In the early afternoon of the next day Paul Selbington arrived at the inn half irate, half puzzled.

In the common room he found Matthew Spalding quaffing a pint of ale with a morose expression. “Good-d-day, Paul, what bee has got up your b-bonnet?”

The innkeeper also drew near at seeing Paul’s expression.

“Durwent was supposed to meet us this morning in Norwich, at my solicitor’s office. I was there in time with my three sisters. We waited and waited, and the man did not come, or send any excuse! Mabel was close to tears.”

“F-father said at breakfast that he didn’t t-trust the man. Nobody knows anything about him.”

“With due respect, Matt, your father trusts nobody. His opinion is not exactly unbiased. I came here as soon as I’d driven sisters home, to find out the reason for Durwent’s inexplicable behaviour.” He turned to the landlord. “Binnock, have you seen Mr. Durwent today? Has he left, by any chance?”

“No, Mr. Selbington, Sir, I haven’t seen him all day. He didn’t dine last night, either. But as far as I know he has not departed. The maid who went to make up his room this morning said he was still asleep, she’d do it later when he went out.”

“S-strange,” Matt commented.

“I shall go up to his room, and see for myself,” Paul decided. “You’d better come also, Binnock, with the key.”

“Very well, Sir.”

They climbed to the first floor, Matt Spalding trailing behind. Paul knocked on the door the innkeeper pointed to, receiving no reply. After a momentary hesitation, he tried the handle, and found it open. The three men entered.

“At least he’s still h-here,” Matt said.

Paul approached the fully dressed man stretched out on the bed. He did not like that red bloom on the cheeks. Putting his palm against Durwent’s neck, he found his suspicion confirmed.

“I owe him an apology,” he said, “Durwent failed to appear from a raging fever. He’s burning up. Binnock, send for Dr Wentworth at once.”

“It’s that bad, is it?” The landlord cast a jaundiced eye on the sick man. “I hate it when guests fall ill and die on me.”

“He’s not dead, and if you hurry, may yet survive.” Paul frowned at Binnock, who caught the message and left, not nearly as quickly as Paul would have preferred.

“He had p-punch last night,” Matt said, regarding the cold remains of the concoction with interest. The whole room reeked of rum. “But f-from the amount l-left over, he can’t have been very drunk.”

“We’d better undress him. Help me, Matt.”

With joint effort they pulled off the tight jacket. Stockings, pants, and shirt followed. Paul found a fresh nightshirt among Durwent’s neatly folded clothes that they put on the patient, not easily, though they were both strong enough. Matt left afterwards, while Paul waited with growing anxiety for the physician.

“What’s this I hear of a dying traveller?” Dr Wentworth asked when he was finally ushered in by the landlord. “Is this the man who is supposed to buy Lobbock Manor?”

“I am in hopes that Mr. Durwent may yet do so, if you can cure him,” Paul said. “He seems to have a high fever. When I saw him yesterday, he showed no symptom of any sickness.”

“Have you tried to rouse him?”

“He did not wake up when we undressed him, though he grumbled a little in his sleep.”

The physician proceeded to touch, palpate, and prod the insensate body of the patient, then sat in the armchair and started to rummage in his bag.

“How bad is it?” Paul asked apprehensively. Now that he finally had the means to marry Patience all but secure, for this to happen!

“He has a high fever, but the lungs seem to be clear so far,” the physician said. “I suspect that his constitution has been weakened by overwork and lack of fresh air. He comes from London, I understand?”

“Yes,” Paul said. “That reminds me, we must send word to his family.”

“Do you have their direction? Or his own?”

“No,” Paul admitted. “I will have to look though his things; surely he has a card case, a letter with the address, or something of the kind. But what are his prospects, and what must be done for him?”

“Will you take care of him?”

“There is no one else,” Paul said, “and I suppose I know him as well as anyone in the place. It is a good thing I have no pupils to attend right now.”

“Very Christian of you. There is no danger of contagion, in my judgement. I will leave this tincture. Twenty drops should be given with water every three hours until the fever abates –
if
it does.” The physician’s countenance was grave. “If he wakes, even if he is delirious, it is important to make him drink. Have barley water ready and try to make him get down as much as he can. With fever as high as this, within two days we should see the outcome – he’ll either defeat it and survive, or succumb.”

“I’ll do my best.” Paul had nursed one of his pupils the previous year, and had a rudimentary understanding of sick care. He hoped that Durwent would be a less fractious patient than young Peregrine had been.

Once the doctor had left, he tried to give the tincture and some water to the unconscious man, but only a small part of the liquid was absorbed, the rest trickled on the pillow. Next he began to look for papers which might contain details about Durwent’s family and friends.

He found a handwritten note of invitation by Lady Amberley, to a house party. Durwent must move in higher circles than Paul had supposed from his sober dress and demeanour.

A sheaf of business notes made Paul raise his brows in surprise at the figures involved. It would appear that the price of Lobbock Manor was small change to the man breathing so heavily on the bed. Was he getting enough air? Paul opened the window, reasoning that the risk was small, since it was warmer outside than indoors.

He returned to the scrutiny of Durwent’s papers. There was a letter from a Mrs. Emily Collins, in Lancashire, that was signed “your sister Emily”. Paul scrupulously refrained from reading it; correspondence among family members should remain private. He carefully noted the return address on the outside of the unfolded sheet, however. In the unhappy case that Durwent died of this fever, his sister must be informed. A silver-chased card case yielded Durwent’s London address – a business address, he guessed. About half the cards only gave the name, Jonathan Durwent. Those were clearly meant for more social purposes.

There was a purse with a surprising number of gold guineas in Durwent’s bag. He saw several more papers, but Paul did not touch them, judging two addresses sufficient for his purposes.

Paul dipped one of Durwent’s expensive neck cloths into a ewer full of water provided by the landlord, in place of the pungent punch that had been removed, and rubbed the cooling cloth over the patient’s hot face and neck.

“Sophia,” Durwent muttered without opening his eyes. “Must not get away.”

“She’s not getting away,” Paul said soothingly, wondering who Sophia could be. “She will come to see you when you get better.”

A smile fleetingly passed over the sick man’s face at this comforting lie. Paul sighed and dipped the cloth into water again. He had better send word to his sisters, that the sale of their estate was only postponed, for the duration of Durwent’s illness, and that he would be busy for the rest of the day. He needed to inform his own household and Patience as well. It was Patience who would be looking after him like this, if
he
ever lay on a bed in such helplessness as Durwent, who only yesterday had seemed so fit and strong. If she was not there, Paul would call for her as this man was calling for his Sophia.

This sudden sickness proved yet again how uncertain life was. He had been a fool to wait so long before proposing to Patience. They might have two or three children already. But those would yet come, with God’s favour … what names should they have? What would they look like? Tall and blond like both parents, most likely, and stubborn like Patience. That might easily lead to battles of will, but maybe some of their offspring would inherit Paul’s more pliable temperament.

From that thought it was but a small mental step to the wedding and the wedding night, his very favourite subject. Best of all, it was drawing closer by the day now. 

And Durwent’s money would make his marriage more secure. Durwent absolutely had to survive.

Paul wrung out the cloth and dipped it into the ewer again.