Danger Wears White (6 page)

She saw no humor there.

Fear clutched at her heart. What was this? Did he know her secret, the man in the hidden room? Was he privy to his identity? This man was a Jacobite, so surely he was on the same side as Tony?

Even Jacobites had factions.
Especially
Jacobites. Probably inevitable when a group of plotters gathered together. Maybe they wanted different things. Perhaps one was an adherent of the father, the Old Pretender, and the other of his son.

Imogen didn’t know. She didn’t care, other than getting Tony out of the house as soon as she possibly could. The circumstances had become too dangerous for him here with this man prying.

Consequently, she gave a sweet smile and told him she would show him around with pleasure. If she kept an eye on him, he was less likely to try to seek out secrets for himself. He’d been to the hut; he could have found something there. That blood, perhaps some of the rags. She had hardly attended to tidying up afterward, more concerned with getting Tony to safety. She should have returned, except she hadn’t had the time.

When she excused herself to change, she wished she could visit him. During the day, servants scurried up and down the Long Gallery on their way from one side of the house to the other. She didn’t employ many indoor servants, as few as she could get away with, but they would be working in the bedrooms this morning and then moving to the parlors. Her mother had probably given extra orders, engendering more activity.

No, she couldn’t go. Instead, she changed into her best riding habit, disdaining the help of the maid she used on those rare occasions when she had to dress to make an impression. “I will manage while Lord Dankworth is here.” She stood before the mirror, pinning on her hat. Not the everyday one but the one with the gold braid. “Concentrate on my mother.”

“But, my lady, your mother told me to concentrate on you.”

With an exasperated exclamation, Imogen spun around. “Please get it into your head that I am not to be addressed as ‘my lady.’ Not under any circumstances and particularly while Lord Dankworth is here. The title doesn’t belong to us anymore. It’s presumptuous to use it. Miss Thane is my name.”

The maid flushed red and stammered her understanding, which made Imogen feel like a bully and immediately regret the vehemence of her denial. “As long as it doesn’t happen again. I’d appreciate your reminding the other servants.”

The servant scurried off, leaving Imogen to sweep downstairs to meet Lord Dankworth, who was waiting for her in the main hall. He wore a riding habit of scarlet cloth, his blue waistcoat bringing out the gray shade of his eyes. His black knee length boots were highly polished and furnished with shiny spurs. Anything less like Tony’s practical wear was hard to imagine.

They left, and at least she could provide a decent mount for him, since he had only carriage horses with him. He approved of the choices. Today she’d left old faithful Blackie to his oats and straw and had chosen Jessie, a sweet-tempered mare she’d raised herself.

Lord Dankworth proved knowledgeable about horses, and they walked the first part of the estate in relative amity. “My father owns many such, but few are so well tended as this. You will prove any man a formidable wife.”

Imogen forced her fingers to relax on the reins. “I don’t have any plans to marry, sir.”

“I can see why.” He turned his head and fixed a charming smile on her. “Anyone lucky enough to win your hand would find himself in possession of a neat estate and a perfectly unusual house.” Without looking away, he corrected his horse’s natural urge to move faster, only a slight ripple disturbing his perfect seat.

As a younger son with no estate, he would be looking for a wife with some property. Had he put her in the picture? She didn’t know how many children the Duke of Northwich had, but if he had a quiverful he’d be hard put to settle all of them creditably.

“I am over twenty-one, my lord. Nobody may order me to marry.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Except for the king, naturally.”

Startled, she widened her eyes.

He responded before she could say anything. “We must temper our ideals with practicality. The de facto king, I should have said. I forget I’m amongst friends. In London, a whisper of dissent from our quarters is pounced on and called treason.”

His shame-faced expression made her laugh, and he joined in.

“There, I’m glad we are back to our cordiality of last night. I do like you, Imogen, if I may address you as such?”

“It’s better than ‘my lady.’”

“You are wise,” he said. “But many people in London will call you that.”

“Will?”

She took him along the lower field, on the other side of the estate from the hut, but they were heading in that direction now. She planned to suggest they return to the house, having no desire to examine the place with him.

“I would like to see you in London.” He glanced at the path ahead of them. “You deserve a season.”

“I have neither the fortune nor the looks to attract attention there. One day I may go purely for amusement.” She paused, loath to reveal her dearest wishes. Because if she admitted it, she did want to see London. The theatres and great buildings appealed to her, and while she didn’t relish the ballrooms and salons of society, she could easily avoid them. Routs and balls didn’t obsess the entirety of the population of London.

“You should enter society,” he said, his face serious now. “I am convinced you would take very well. You have enough fortune to satisfy all but the most particular, and you should not hide your beauty away in the country.”

That was the second man to tell her she was beautiful in as many days. What had brought on this flattery? She’d managed five-and-twenty years without attracting too much scrutiny.

She could only assume that the men were deluded or they had other motives for trying to coax her to town. “I have never considered myself anything above the ordinary.” When he would have protested, she held up one hand. “Please, sir, I cannot think I would outshine the society ladies.”

A note of alarm entered her thoughts. If Lord Dankworth spoke that way to her mother, who knew what maggots would get into her head? When Imogen turned eighteen, her mother had insisted she make her debut in Lancaster, a precursor to her London debut. Imogen had barely escaped the great waste of money that would have been. The hire of a house and suitable clothes were far beyond her budget, she’d protested, although even then she knew she wasn’t a pauper. But neither was she a wealthy heiress, and the scourge of Jacobitism tainted her name.

At least they weren’t Catholics. She had found it too wearing to combat the local vicar, preferring to have him on her side, and had received confirmation into the Protestant faith at the same time as the Young Pretender. The Dankworths were a prominent Catholic family. Perhaps that would put him off, if nothing else would. She would save that weapon for when she needed it.

“I am flattered, but not persuaded.” She spurred her horse to a trot.

They were getting too close to the hut. But he rode before her and led the way, damn him. She had to follow.

He rode unerringly to the hut where she’d found Tony yesterday and dismounted with ease, tossing the horse’s reins over the outstretched branch of a nearby tree. She left her mare by the fence and trudged across the field in boots definitely meant for riding and not walking. “I know this place, sir,” she said when she reached him. “There’s nothing to see here but ruin. I may have it rebuilt, because we use this field for summer pasture.”

When he showed every indication of going inside, she tried one final time. “It’s probably dangerous in there.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He ventured inside, stepping cautiously.

Damn. Her throat tightened. Would he say something? She had no choice but to follow him inside.

She had to wait for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Nothing. Nothing that shouldn’t be there. Fresh straw was strewn on the floor. She breathed out slowly, releasing her sigh of relief.

Lord Dankworth kicked the straw, gaining nothing but a few wisps that stuck to his shiny boot. Served him right.

One of the Georges must have been here. Thank God for that. They’d cleaned up the blood and taken the rags away. There really was nothing to see.

Had this man suspected something? But he turned to her, his smile as charming as ever and his eyes warm, for a change. “We should not linger. You’re right, this place is dangerous. Whatever you plan to do next, I’d have it demolished.”

“You’re right, sir.” She felt like adding something sarcastic along the lines of informing him that she didn’t know how she’d have managed without him. But she forbore. He might take it seriously.

He followed her to her horse and kindly threw her up into the saddle so she didn’t have to lead the mare over to the tree stump. He mounted with an ease that spoke of hours spent riding. But a mite showy for her taste, even though he didn’t appear to think about it. Like his riding habit. Perfectly fashionable, slightly flamboyant, but it made her uncomfortable, as if she weren’t good enough in some way.

Imogen didn’t like feeling like that in her own place, but she did him the courtesy of believing he might not mean it. It was probably his way, but if she threw in her lot with him, he would be forever challenging her to match him.

She caught herself short. What was she thinking? This man had gently hinted, that was all. Probably had no intention of putting himself in the picture, but giving her some guidance. After all, he’d been on the town all his life.

Why had her mind turned to something she’d determinedly put out of it? Nothing had changed, except two handsome men had come into her life. Temporarily. Nothing else. In a few days, they’d move on, both of them, and she’d settle back into her everyday life. Maybe she should practice on him. Or maybe she should continue as she was and not try to add any airs and graces to something she was not.

They turned back to the house, but she had no chance to visit either of the Georges, who were outside servants, before it was time to change for dinner.

She chose a different gown from the night before. Unusual in itself. Once she chose a dinner gown, she wore it for a week before she sent it to the laundry. But she felt she owed their guest something.

Her mother had asked the vicar tonight, alongside the squire. A perfect country gathering and a perfect bore. Just as she liked it, she assured herself. Lord Dankworth was perfectly affable, although at times he showed a little impatience with the entrenched attitudes of the guests. The squire’s daughter showed an alarming propensity to flutter her fan and giggle, something she’d never done before.

Lord Dankworth responded with cool pleasantries and once exchanged a speaking glance with Imogen that told her he preferred her company. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and forced a stiff smile to her face.

The squire showed no desire to join the ladies immediately after the meal, so she had a reason to excuse herself. Pleading a headache, she ignored her mother’s disapproving frowns and made her escape.

Hurrying upstairs, she got to her room without anyone stopping her. Laughter echoed from the dining room and up the stairs as she scurried along the corridor to her room.

She wouldn’t pause to change, but dropped her hooped petticoat, fan, shoes, and stockings in her room and went straight to the Long Gallery. She could see him and get back to the safety of her bedroom.

But she had to see him. Had one of the Georges brought the small beer she’d requested? She couldn’t provide tea or barley-water. People would ask what she wanted it for, and she could hardly tell them.

Even before she slid the panel aside she heard muttering. When she had it open and had slid through, she wasted little time replacing the piece of wood before she leaped down the short flight of steps and ran across the room to his side.

His eyes were half closed, and he’d been thrashing around, twisting the sheets into tangled knots. As she approached, he flung an arm out, barely missing her. It skimmed past her body, sending a breeze across her cheek.

Sweat bedewed his brow, and he’d torn his shirt in his efforts to remove it. Each muscle tensed when he turned. It shouldn’t be like that.

Dark blood stained the bandage that last night had been clear.

Leaning over him, she captured the arm. The knot was too tight, the flesh of his arm bulging top and bottom. The pulse in his throat throbbed, and he didn’t seem to be aware of her until she caught his wrist.

“No!”

He fought back. She was no match for him. He pushed her away.

The panel slid aside with a scrape of wood, and Imogen held her breath.

“Miss?”

She sighed in relief when she saw Young George’s anxious face. “It’s the wound. He’s taken a fever. We need to drain it. Can you get water, a knife?”

Turning, she spotted the table knife sticking out from under the pillow and seized it.

“No, miss, he’s too strong for you.” Young George scrambled down the steps and crossed to her side, taking Tony’s wrist. “Now do it.”

She sliced through the knot she’d been so proud of last night and unwrapped the bandage.

The stink filtered through the room before she got off the last part. The wound was swollen and red. Pus seeped from it. “It’s gone wrong.”

“It’s not too bad, miss. I’ve seen men recover from worse.”

“Can we manage it between us?”

Young George grunted. “I don’t know, miss. If we don’t manage it tonight, we’ll ’ave to call for help.”

He was right. “So you’ll stay with me?”

He stared, his brows raised. “Of course. Now you mop up this mess but keep out of ’is way if he moves around too much. I’ll get what we need.”

As good as his word, George was back within twenty minutes with supplies. Those twenty minutes had been the longest in Imogen’s life.

Tony turned restlessly, muttering incomprehensible half-words. Once he shouted, “Julius!” and she had to stop him before someone came.

She said his name, “Tony,” and immediately he quietened and opened his eyes, gazing at her. For a moment, he appeared perfectly lucid, cupping her cheek softly, and then he was off again.