Autumn Rain (22 page)

For a moment, Lucien stared into the dark wine, remembering how she'd stood there when he'd removed her bonnet, not knowing what he was about. "She came to ask me to look after the boy," he answered simply. "I did a miserable job of it, didn't I?"

"Then you know she's an innocent!" Bell crowed.

"Yes, I know." He sat up and reached for one of the bottles of port. Pouring himself another cup, he regarded it briefly, then met Bellamy Townsend's eyes. "There is still Arthur Kingsley, Bell—and I fail to see how you mean to get around that."

"Wait for him to die."

Devil of a coil, ain't it?—a man waiting for his own grandfather to die.
Charles Kingsley's voice echoed once again in Lucien's ears. He lifted his filled cup, spilling a little of the wine onto his buff breeches. "To Arthur Kingsley's long life," he murmured before tossing the contents off.

"Well, I won't be drinking to that! You hear him, George?" Bell demanded plaintively. "Wantin' to drink to the old gent's long life!"

"She deserves better than a rake."

"Since when did you appoint yourself the protector of decent females? I ain't the only rake in this room, you know! Besides, I told you—reformed rake."

"And I can tell you from bitter experience that rakes do not reform, Bell—they merely age," Lucien told him tiredly. "Whether you have a wife or not, when you are fifty, you will be chasing females less than half your age. Until your corset creaks," he added significantly.

"Don't know how you'd know," Bell muttered. "Since Diana, you aren't chasing any of 'em as don't want to be caught. Nothing but demireps and fashionable impures— like you aren't wanting a lady. Threw away Diana—tossed her my way, in fact."

"Diana wasn't a lady!" Lucien snapped "At least with the demireps, one knows what one is getting, which isn't much—but the arrangement is an honest one—one does not have to pretend what one does not feel. Not that you would know about that, Bell."

"Whatever happened to Diana, by the by?" Leighton asked.

"I neither know—nor do I care."

Bellamy shook his head. "Named the brat after you, you know. Made me nervous for a while—thought she meant to lay it at my door."

"Bell—I have no wish to discuss Diana."

"All right—all right." He ran his fingers through his blond hair, ruffling it, then dared to meet Lucien's eyes again. "But I don't know why you got to blame me, why you think I cannot change. Dash it, but Elinor's all a man could want! It isn't like you think!"

"Elinor?" One of Leighton's eyebrows rose. "Elinor?"

"Oh, I don't call her that to her face—not like we are familiar or anything. Not often, anyway—got to be careful, particularly after the thing about the bet."

Lucien drained his cup and poured yet another. Staring hard at Townsend, he declared angrily, "You are like my father, Bell—you take what you want, then damn the rest to hell. Elinor Kingsley deserves better than that—you'd do to her what Jack did to my mother. A few years with you and she'd wither, waiting for you to give up your barques of frailty."

"If she hasn't withered with Arthur Kingsley, she's not going—"

"It was a long time ago, Luce," Leighton said softly. "You've got to forget about Jack."

But Lucien had come to his feet, towering over Bellamy, weaving. "What you and Jack don't understand is that it's never over, Bell! Never! You wreck lives, Bell!" He started to cough, but his healing lung hurt too much. Pressing his balled fist against his side, he managed to hold it back.

Stung, Bellamy pressed his body back against the tufted leather, and retorted defensively, "You said you did not care about Diana! You said—"

"I had no wish to be a laughingstock! I had no wish to be pitied, Bell!"

"Well, if I'd have known—dash it, but you made yourself the laughingstock! You wanted rid of her! I gave you the chance—that was all!"

"If I had not, it would have been the same!"

"You're disguised," Bellamy muttered. Ducking Lucien, he managed to rise. "As for Mad Jack, you are more like him than you would have us think! I don't see you riding to rescue any fair ladies yourself, Luce!" His face now red, he sneered, "You are as bad a fellow as he was, you know. Your neglect made Diana ripe for the plucking."

"Leave Elinor Kingsley alone!"

"Aha! You got designs on her yourself, don't you? Well, there you are out! I've not played Galahad so's I could step aside! You hear me, Luce? She's mine!"

Leighton threw himself between them. "All in our cups, that's all. Come on, Bell—got to go before you regret it."

"If you think I mean to let him insult me—to tell me—"

"Fool if you was to try to do anything about it." Leighton caught Townsend by both arms, forcing him back. "For God's sake, Bell—let's leave it. Luce's wounded—daresay it's affected more'n his shoulder, that's all."

"I meant what I said."

"Coming it too strong, Luce!" Bell shouted. "You got no right—you haven't even been here!" Shaking free of Leighton, he faced Lucien angrily. "And I'm not afraid of you—I don't care if they do call you Lucifer!

Throw a spoke in my wheel where she is concerned, and before Almighty God, I'll call you out!"

"That's enough, Bell!" Leighton insisted loudly.

"Stay out of it, George! He's got no right—"

He jabbed Lucien's left shoulder, and for a moment, the earl went white beneath his tan. Holding his shoulder, he closed his eyes against the pain and soreness there. A wave of dizziness, of nausea hit him, then passed. He ought to be beyond this by now, but he wasn't. He was far sicker than he wanted to admit.

This time, Leighton moved behind Townsend, grabbing his arms, pulling him away from Longford. "I'm not burying either of you—d'you hear me? You've got to stop this—both of you!"

Lucien caught his breath, then released his shoulder. "Leave her alone," he repeated evenly.

"My intentions are honorable!"

"Hell will freeze before I believe it!"

With one arm still around Bellamy Townsend's waist, Leighton leaned to reach the hat on the table. Slamming it crookedly over Bell's disordered blond locks, he dragged him toward the door. "Got to sleep it off—that's the ticket—get you some air—"

"She's mine, Luce—d'you hear me? When Kingsley's gone, she's mine!"

"Shut up, Bell!" Leighton snapped. "I said I did not want to bury you—leastwise not while you are a guest in my house."

"He can't—you saw him—I ain't afraid of him, I tell you," Bellamy protested.

Lucien stood there, rooted to the floor, listening as the front door slammed. He wasn't foxed—he wished he were, but he wasn't. His shoulder throbbed like the very devil, and he was as weak as the proverbial kitten. If Bell had actually landed a blow, he'd have fallen. Damn! He ought to be better mended than this. But he felt ill, weak in spirit and body still. Maybe the damned doctors had been right—maybe he hadn't been healed enough for the journey, but he'd wanted to bring the boy home. It was a sort of atonement, he supposed, an atonement for what he had not been able to prevent.

Holding his arm, which now felt almost too heavy for the shoulder, he returned to pour himself another cup of the port. As he sank back into the chair, he waited for the weakness, the dizziness, the sweat that came with it to pass, then he wondered why he'd provoked the quarrel with Townsend. It certainly wasn't the obvious—no matter what either of them thought, it wasn't over Diana. They couldn't know that if he'd found her lying in a London gutter, he'd step over her, that he hated her almost as much as he hated Mad Jack.

He supposed it might be a certain admiration for Elinor Kingsley. Even as he sat there, as sick as he was, he could still remember when she'd come to him in London. How she'd been surprised, shocked even, by his mistakenly amorous overture, how she'd only come to ask his aid for the boy. And having known Charles Kingsley, and having seen her at his grave, he was prepared to believe she'd loved poor Charley.

He lifted his glass, mocking himself. Whether Bell mounted her or not ought to matter not one whit to him. But it did. She'd asked him to protect Kingsley, and he had failed so miserably that the boy had fallen in his first battle. Now it seemed as though Charley haunted his thoughts in turn, asking him to do no less for her, begging him to protect her from someone like Bell Town-send. It was a jest of sorts—rather like the wolf being asked to tend the sheep. But he had to try.

He hadn't wanted to—and he'd not wanted to quarrel with Bell. Sitting there, he felt a surge of resentment. Neither she nor Charley had ever had any right to expect anything of him, to make him feel guilty for anything. And yet since the boy had fallen, he'd known no peace.

His gaze moved around his bookroom, taking in the extraordinary library Langston had possessed and prized, then his eyes rested on the bound journal that lay upon his desk. Like a thief, he'd read it, sharing the dead boy's innermost thoughts, his hopes and dreams, letting himself forget his own cynicism for the moment, to live vicariously a youth he'd never had.

At twenty, he was already living down his father's rep. At twenty, he'd already lost all innocence. Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever been green. Only when Jack had persuaded him to wed Diana, to give her nonexistent brat the family name. It was Dame Fortune's ironic jest—he'd survived while decent fools like Charles Kingsley had not.

He sat there, drinking the port, striving for oblivion, for release from the physical and mental pain, telling himself that he would take her the boy's journal on the morrow, for it was not the sort of thing that could simply be sent. Somehow he thought the old man might keep it from her. Besides, he owed it to her to tell her how Charley had died honorably, doing what he thought he wanted, but in his heart, he knew that would provide little comfort.

If only he felt better, if only the insistent pain, the heat of the wound would go away. He wondered if he'd picked up something in Spain, some debilitating weakness that meant to linger. Whatever it was, he could scarce breathe for it, and it was affecting his temper. He'd begun to think he was possessed of but two moods— one belligerent, the other morose.

He rose unsteadily, then sank back down, defeated by a body weaker than his mind. Surely tomorrow would be better. It had to be. Otherwise, he was going to die.

CHAPTER 20

"My lady?" Surprised to hear Daggett's voice behind her, she turned around. "Yes?"

"It's his lordship." He looked down, appearing almost diffident before her. "I can do nothing with him— nothing," he declared dramatically.

She sighed. What did he want of her? What did he think she could do about Arthur's strange behavior? Did he not know that she did not care what became of her elderly husband? Anything she might have been able to feel had died with Charles. She shook her head, saying aloud, "He does not listen to me."

"But he will not have the light, nor will he eat or bathe," the valet complained. "He does but sit or lie and stare."

She didn't want to talk about Arthur. She did not even wish to be reminded of his existence. Not now. Not yet. "It was a shock to him—as to all of us," she murmured, starting away.

"Lady Kingsley, he cannot go on like this!" Realizing that he'd raised his voice to the only authority now in the house, he apologized. "Your pardon, my lady, but I am out of reason worried about him. It has been four weeks since his nails were pared, and—"

"Mr. Daggett—"

"He fasts himself to bones!"

"What can I do about it?" she cried. "It's he who sent Charles to die, and I'd not—"

"It's a grievous price he has paid for it. Please, I pray you will attempt reason with him. Just once. Perhaps when you have seen him, you will wish to summon a physician—or the vicar. All I know, my lady, is that something must be done, else he will die."

She did not want to see him. She could not look at him without remembering how he'd sent Charley away, how he'd caned her for the innocent attachment between them. Indeed, but it had been almost a relief when he'd disappeared into his room, when he'd insisted on taking a separate carriage to Stoneleigh.

"Here now—what's this?" her father demanded, coming out into the hall.

"I have asked Lady Kingsley to see to his lordship's welfare," Daggett sniffed.

"Well, of course she will! Won't you, Nell? Knows her duty, Mr. Daggett!"

"Papa—"

He leaned closer, and she could smell the wine on his breath even though it was early in the day. "Don't be a fool, puss," he advised her low. "Estate ain't entailed, you know."

"I don't care," she muttered.

"Got sisters to think of—see he takes care of 'em before he pops off. Go on—be all that is proper—God'll reward you for it," he murmured, pushing her toward Arthur's bedchamber door.

"God, Papa?" she asked incredulously. "As He has done the rest of my life?"

"Hush—it's blasphemy to doubt it. Besides, you owe it to him."

"Owe—? Papa, you are mistaken, I assure you," she told him coldly. "I have paid for every trinket, every gown, and—"

"It don't bear saying now, Nell. Man's got one foot in the grave and dragging the other that direction, if half the servants can be believed."

"Is that all you can think of—his money?" she demanded angrily.

"Feel for him, Nell—go on, puss," he urged her. "It ain't like he was a stranger to you."

"You forget he does not like for you to call me that," she retorted. Nonetheless, she reluctantly reached for Arthur's door, telling herself that even after nearly five years, he was a stranger, an almost sinister being she could not, had not ever loved.

The room was dark and musty, the air stale save for the smell of the chamber pot. Daggett hovered behind her, whispering, "He would not have it emptied—would not have the chambermaid within. Wants no noise."

She wrinkled her nose against the odor. "Naught's wrong with you, is there, Mr. Daggett?" she demanded acidly. "I'd have it emptied—and cleaned
now."
Moving farther into the darkened room, she looked for her husband. "Arthur—?"

There was no answer, but she found him sitting slumped in a chair, and for a moment, she thought him dead. "Arthur," she said more loudly, shaking him.

His eyes opened, the darkness making them seem almost malevolent, and he regarded her balefully. "That stench—it's death," he muttered, looking away.

"It's no such thing." Moving purposefully to the window, she pulled back the heavy hangings, letting in the light.

"Don't." He lifted his hand weakly, then dropped it. His head fell forward until it seemed to rest upon his chest.

She turned back, prepared to accuse him, to rail at him, if he so much as said an unpleasant word to her. But she was unprepared for the sight of him. He seemed so old, so frail, so unkempt—like the poor creatures described by Hannah More after a visit to an asylum. Her anger faded to pity, and it occurred to her that she was no longer afraid of the human husk he'd become. Gone was the arrogance, the ambition that had consumed him for as long as she'd known him.

She reached to touch his shoulder again. "Arthur," she declared forcefully, "it's time this stopped—it serves nothing now. You will be bathed, put into clean clothes, and brought downstairs. This is not grief—it's insanity!"

"Witch!" he spat at her. "Ought to have seen it—you bewitched him!"

She wanted to strike him, but somehow she managed to hold both temper and tongue. "Mr. Daggett, you will see a bath is drawn."

"Don't want one!" the old man declared. "Get out of here before I take m'cane to you!"

"You are in no condition to take a cane to anyone, my lord," she told him. Nonetheless, she moved the walking stick safely out of his reach. "Get up—I think you have soiled yourself."

"Don't care," he muttered mulishly. "Go on—leave me be, I said!"

"No. Daggett, get a footman, fori am not at all certain he can stand unaided." When the valet did not respond, she looked up. "Now. And tell Mrs. Peake that he must have clean linen on his bed. I shall have Mary and the other maids air this room out before he retires tonight."

"Humph! Mrs. Peake won't—"

"It does not matter what Mrs. Peake likes. You asked, and I am here," she reminded him coldly. "We are going to give him a bath, dress him, and see that he is carried downstairs," she repeated.

"Cannot turn me up sweet," the old man's voice rasped. "Cost me Charles."

A month of bitterness welled, then overflowed. "It was not I who sent him to die!" she snapped. "And think you you grieve alone? Well, you do not—you do not! At least Charley loved me—at least he cared! If any lost Charles, it was I! But you do not care for anyone, do you? You will not even let me share the pain I feel! You cannot even grieve with me!"

"Love!" he snorted. "It was his salad days—nothing more."

"Then why did you send him away? Why? Arthur, it was you that sent him to Spain!" Telling herself that it served nothing to provoke him now, that it was too late to bring Charley back, she swallowed hard, trying to stifle the anger she felt.

"Whore!"

Her hands shook as she reached to unbutton his soiled vest, but she managed to say more evenly, "I shall choose to ignore that, counting it but the deranged state of your mind, Arthur." As the footman came into the room, she ordered him, "Stand him up, if you will. Those clothes have to come off him."

"My lady, it's unseemly—" Daggett began.

"I have seen most of him before." Seeing that Arthur pulled away, she began to relish the thought of controlling him this once. "If you have let him get to this state, then someone must take charge," she said tersely. While the footman struggled to both hold and undress her husband, she returned to the window, this time to throw up the sash. "This cannot wait for Mary. Indeed, but a little air might help us all," she muttered. "I know not how you have stood it, Mr. Daggett."

"His lordship forbade—"

"But
you
are of sound mind," she said coldly. "He obviously is not."

"He don't like—"

"At this point, I should think what he likes or dislikes to be quite immaterial."

"Nell?"

She looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway. "It's all right, Mama—I have everything quite in hand."

Nonetheless, her mother came inside, wrinkling her nose. "Oh, dear—I had no idea—oh, my!"

"Overwhelming," Elinor muttered.

As the valet and footman removed Arthur Kingsley's small clothes, his pale, sunken eyes sought Elinor. "Whore!" he flung at her again.

"Arthur, if you are going to behave as a child, I shall see you treated as one," Elinor retorted. "And I am not above washing your mouth with soap the next time you use that word."

"Nell!" her mama gasped.

"Well, it's the truth," she shot back, unrepentant. "When he says such, he sullies Charley as much as me."

"Madam"—Daggett addressed Lady Ashton—"perhaps you would wish to remain outside. I cannot think it seemly—"

"Pish," that lady declared. "I have been wed twenty-one years and borne children, sir—he does not have anything I have not seen." She looked to her daughter. "I am here to support you, dearest. Between us, we shall set this place to rights—and Lord Kingsley also." Her eyes flitted to the stained small clothes, and she shuddered. "I had no idea," she repeated, "none at all."

"Madam—" Daggett tried again.

"You ought to be turned off to let him get into such a case," Lady Ashton muttered. "If you would be useful, I'd have you fetch the soap."

"I wash my hands of this!" he declared, sniffing.

"If you do, it's all you have washed," Elinor's mother told him with feeling. Moving closer to the nearly naked baron, she announced to him, "I did not rear my daughter to endure filth of mind or body, my lord."

He blinked almost childishly. "Don't want—"

"That, sir, is immaterial. When you are recovered, no doubt you will wish to apologize for your behavior. Nell-"

"Yes, Mama?"

"You'd best discover a clean nightshirt for your husband—for I am not at all certain Mr. Daggett can be trusted to do it."

Affronted, the valet looked from Elinor to her mother, then back again. "Which is it to be, my lady? Are we to dress him or ready him for bed?"

Elinor had meant to force him into company, but she supposed the bath itself would be all the unpleasantness she'd wish to endure. "The nightshirt—he can come downstairs tomorrow."

One of the footmen finished removing the baron's stockings, and for a moment, he stood there, his whole body shivering, the loose flesh of his flanks quivering. Mercifully, the footman threw a blanket about him, and helped him to sit while the bathwater was poured into the copper tub. Lady Ashton drew a breath, then made a face. "If you are possessed of Hungary water—or cologne even, I pray you will put a bit of it into his bath," she ventured hopefully.

As Daggett busied himself in Arthur's cabinets and the footmen tested the water, Elinor whispered, "Thank you, Mama."

"Nonsense," Lady Ashton told her, "you were doing quite well without me."

When they were ready, the men eased Arthur Kingsley into the tub of water, where he sat hunched forward, still shivering. Wetting a cloth, Elinor began working up a lather from the soap. Leaning over him, she started with his back, sudsing it. Looking down to where his hands clutched the rolled edge of the tub, she could see his long, filthy nails.

"Sally Jersey ought to see you now, my lord," she murmured.

"Sally Jersey is a whore," he muttered.

"You did not think so when you sought her favor."

He closed his eyes against his tears. "That was when I had a reason to live."

It was the summer's heat, he told himself. Lucien reined in at the crossroad, considering whether he ought to go back. He felt like the very devil, more so than yesterday even, for his shoulder ached unbearably, his arm felt hot and heavy, and something within his head pounded like a hammer. For a moment, he swayed in his saddle, then he straightened, holding himself tall, militarily correct. He'd come too far to turn back. He'd come to bring Elinor Kingsley the boy's journal, and no stupid complaint would keep him from that. From Jack, he'd learned a contempt for weakness, and for his own more than anyone else's. He jerked the reins almost savagely, wincing as the hot, tearing pain traveled from his neck to his elbow, and he turned the horse down Stoneleigh's lane. He'd not give in to the nausea he felt—he had but to master it. But he did not mean to tarry overlong at Stoneleigh. He had to get home before he fainted.

The horse plodded, settling into a pace between a walk and a trot, jarring every bone in Lucien's body, adding to his misery. He passed a weary hand over his eyes, trying to bring the world back into focus, trying to rid himself of the spots that seemed to dance before his eyes. It was not much farther, he promised himself.

Afore the Almighty, it was hot, so much so that he could scarce stand it. His shirt seemed to cling under the scarlet regimentals, making him wish he'd worn something else. Sweat poured from every pore, soaking his hair, his face, his whole body now. Spanish fever—he was coming down with the Spanish fever. He mustn't pass out from it.

Holding the reins with his good arm and hand, he brushed at his hat with the other. It toppled, falling to the ground, rolling like an errant bandbox. Mumbling a curse, he let it go. He'd begun to feel as though if he dismounted, he'd be too weak to pull himself back into his saddle. When he got to the house, he'd have to entrust the journal to whoever came out, hoping it reached her hands. Otherwise, he'd not get home again.

He shouldn't have come—he knew that now. He'd be deuced lucky if Shakar could find Langston Park unaided. He leaned forward, resting his good arm on the Arabian's saddle. When he looked up, the huge country house was there.

A hostler came running, then stopped when he got to him. "Yer lor'ship—ye all right? Jock! Jock! Come aid his lor'ship! It's Longford!"

"No." Lucien tried to unbutton his coat to retrieve the bound journal, but the nausea overwhelmed him. He was going to be terribly, utterly sick, and there was naught he could do to stop it.

"Gor! Fetch Mr. Peake!" the hostler shouted. " 'E's swoonin'!"

"Humph! It ain't Mr. Peake he needs—Mrs. Peake neither," his companion snorted. "It's the doctor!"

"No—give—" With an effort, Lucien managed to pull out the leather-covered volume. It was already stained with his sweat. "Here—" He leaned to hand it, and his world went black, plummeting him into oblivion.