How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back (29 page)

“And pray tell, what is that?” Francis asked, masking his growing concern with remarkable perfection.

“Would you care to guess?”

“I would much prefer it if you would just cut to the chase and spit it out.”

“Very well then, why don’t I show you what your father has written with his own hand? You know he revered me. Did you honestly think that he would leave me with nothing? Not a single token of his gratitude?” She chuckled slightly as her eyes fell upon the letter that she held between her hands.

“He left you with five thousand pounds,” Francis stated.

“Come on . . . you don’t seriously believe that I would have settled for so little, do you?”

Francis just stared back at her, a blank expression masking his true feelings of apprehension.

“Here you are, Francis. Why don’t you go ahead and open it? After all, it’s the least I can do, considering that I’m about to take half of what you own.” Francis’s mouth fell open in a blend of genuine surprise and disgust. “What? Didn’t he tell you that he made an amendment to his will? It will be such fun to redecorate the London home; yes, that goes to me as well.”

Unable to contain himself a moment longer, he reached out and snatched the letter from her hand. He sensed Emily’s agitation as she shifted uneasily in the seat next to his. She hadn’t said anything, but then again, there wasn’t really much for her to say. The situation was clearly far worse than he ever would have imagined. It was difficult to believe that his father would have done such a thing.

Taking a deep breath, he broke the familiar seal and removed the letter from the envelope. His eyes focused on his father’s handwriting as his forehead furrowed into a deep-set frown. He read the letter, and then he read it again to ensure that he had understood it correctly, but the message was quite clear.

Dunhurst Park, 1809

Dear Charlotte,

It is with great sadness that I now prepare to leave this world. My physician tells me that it is but a matter of days now, and I do feel that I am ill prepared.

In a way, I consider myself more fortunate than most, for I know what is to come, and have therefore been allowed some measure of time in which to put my affairs in order. Still, there is one issue that I have failed to resolve, and that is my relationship with my son Francis. My heart is heavy with regret for how much that poor boy must have suffered. I wish I could have done more to help, but in the end, this will have to suffice.

Charlotte, my wife and I brought you into our home to fulfill a dream, and you gave us the most precious gift of all. For that, we have always been eternally grateful. However, I am baffled as to why you wish for me to say that he is your son, when clearly he is not. Let there be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Francis Riley is the son of Elisabeth Riley and myself. We have always loved him and have always had the best of intentions for him—something that you completely lacked. If you look closely, madam, you’ll discover that the signature on the letter you have in your possession has not been written by my hand. It is a forgery and will never stand in a court of law.

You charmed yourself into our lives, never once failing to serve your own interests, selfish as you were. Elisabeth saw through you much sooner than I, and I do believe that she paid for it with her life, though it was impossible for me to prove it.

I am a man of principle, Charlotte, and as such, I would never stoop to murder a woman—not even to avenge my own wife. But I have no qualms with attacking you in kind.

It wasn’t always easy to play the part, and I do fear that my sacrifice may have been too great; I lost my son’s respect and affection in the process. My only consolation is that he will one day discover that you did not deceive me, but rather, that I deceived you.

I’m sure you must have realized by now that I leave you with nothing. Your selfishness destroyed my family. I pray, that this letter may serve to destroy you, or in the very least, the chance of achieving your goal.

George Riley,

The Earl of Dunhurst

Francis felt his throat tighten. This was in truth the last thing that he had expected to discover. He carefully folded the letter, hoping perhaps to gain some time in order to get his emotions under control. Tears pressed against his eyes, but he forced them back. He would find time to heal his wounds later. “This truly is a surprise,” he said in a clipped voice as he handed the letter back to Charlotte. “I think you’ll find it likewise.”

Taking the letter from him, Charlotte read, her eyes clouding over with anger and dismay as the truth dawned on her. By the time she was through, her otherwise beautiful features were twisted and contorted into an ugly grimace.

Francis noticed Emily tense beside him as they watched Charlotte grow red with fury. He placed a reassuring hand upon her arm as Charlotte crumpled the letter between her fingers. “No,” she said. “No, no, no! To hell with you, Francis. To hell with all of you.”

Emily saw the flash of silver first. Instinct told her what it was, and without a second thought for her own safety, she rushed forward, flinging herself toward their nemesis. She had hoped somehow to disarm her, but a deafening bang split the air, and the pain that followed quickly overpowered her. She knew immediately that she’d been shot, but before another thought could surface, the room tilted and everything went black.

C
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he felt the throbbing headache before she even realized that she was awake. The muted sound of voices filled the air, but what they said was unclear to her. It almost felt as though her ears were filled with water.

Her head rested on a fluffy pillow, but it did little to ease the pain that occasionally tore through her skull. She slowly eased open her eyelids, her lashes fluttering slightly as her eyes adjusted to the light.

The quickening thud of approaching footsteps sounded. “She’s awake,” someone said.

“Thank God.”

She tried to focus, but her vision blurred, and with a heavy sigh she drifted back to sleep.

“I
t’s been two days already. Are you sure we shouldn’t try to wake her? She needs to eat.” Beatrice was distraught with concern for her sister and Francis couldn’t blame her. He was equally worried, having kept vigil ever since the shooting, silently praying that she would soon recover.

“The doctor says we should let her be, and I’m inclined to agree. This has been a traumatic experience for her. She needs to rest in order to heal. Don’t worry; she’ll eat once she wakes—in her own time.”

Beatrice perched herself on the edge of the bed and placed the palm of her hand against Emily’s forehead. “She feels cooler today,” she said hopefully.

The bedroom door opened and Claire entered with Richard in tow. “You look awful,” she told them. “Both of you.”

Beatrice gave her a reproachful glance. They hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours since the incident, remaining awake to watch over Emily and tend to her wound. She’d been feverish for the first day, and they’d repeatedly had to wipe her down with squares of linen soaked in cool water.

“Richard and I have agreed that you need to rest. We’ll look after Emily until you wake.”

“I don’t want to leave her,” Francis argued.

“You won’t be much good to her if you’re too tired to respond, should she need you. Now go and rest—that’s an order.”

Beatrice realized that Claire had a valid point, though she was just as reluctant as Francis to step away from Emily’s bedside. “I should like to be here when she wakes.” She saw that Francis nodded in agreement.

“We will call you immediately if she does. And when she does, there will be much to see to. You will both be of more use to her if you’re well rested.”

Beatrice knew that Claire was right. She kissed Emily lightly on the cheek and left, promising to be back in a couple of hours to check on her. Francis muttered another series of complaints, but finally did as he was told and went to find his bed.

It was late afternoon before he woke. He cursed when his eyes drifted toward the clock next to his bed and he saw the time. He’d slept for six hours. What concerned him the most, however, was that nobody had woken him in all that time, which meant that Emily still slept. He’d expected her to be awake by now, and the fact that she wasn’t worried him.

“Any progress?” he asked Claire as soon as he returned to Emily’s room.

She shook her head. “Perhaps that’s a good thing,” she suggested. “The fever hasn’t returned, and when I changed the dressing two hours ago, her wound appeared to be healing nicely. I think we’re out of the woods so I’m sure she’ll wake soon.”

Francis nodded. “I think you’re right.”

Richard saw that Francis fought to gain control of his emotions—that no matter how hopeful the situation appeared, he was sick with fear for Emily. “It was lucky that the bullet struck her shoulder and that it went straight through,” he said. “And though she did sustain a nasty bump to her head, I’m confident that she’ll be as good as new in another couple of days.” He paused for a moment, knowing full well how little comfort his words were to Francis. “She’s very lucky to have you by her side.”

Richard instantly regretted his words as Francis knit his brow in response. “She wasn’t so lucky two days ago. That bullet was meant for me. What the hell was she thinking, jumping at Charlotte like that?”

“She was thinking of you, Francis. Clearly she loves you very much—so much that she would give her life for you without a moment’s hesitation.”

“I can’t bear to see her suffer like this.” Francis muttered, his voice full of emotion. “Not because of me.”

“Yet if she hadn’t, would you still be standing here?”

“I don’t know.”

The truth was that he’d likely be dead. Charlotte had been quick on the trigger. He simply hadn’t seen it coming and he blamed himself for it constantly.

The door opened and Beatrice stepped into the room. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t believe I slept this long. I must have been more tired than I thought.”

“It’s quite all right,” Claire assured her. “You needed to rest.”

“I told Parker to bring us some coffee and Mrs. Reynolds asked the cook to prepare a fresh poultice for Emily’s wound.”

“What about some food?” Richard asked. “I’m starving.”

That comment brought the first smiles they’d seen in days. Richard Camden was fond of food, but he hadn’t had a decent meal since the night Emily was shot—and even though he’d been hungry, he’d realized that there were more pressing matters at hand. Now that Emily looked better, however, he felt no guilt over letting everyone know how much he longed for a hearty meal.

“I will tell Parker to have a proper meal prepared when he brings the coffee,” Francis told him. “Now that you mention it, I’m quite hungry myself.”

A knock at the door heralded Parker’s arrival. Francis called for him to enter, whereafter the aging butler brought in a tray with four cups of steaming hot coffee, some milk, and some sugar.

“Thank you, Parker. You may set it down over there,” Francis said, pointing toward the dresser. “And please tell cook to prepare a substantial meal for us.”

“Do you wish to eat it in here or in the dining room?”

“You may serve it in the dining room. Miss Claire and Lord Camden will dine first. Miss Rutherford and I will wait until they’ve finished.”

“Very good, my lord.” Parker said. He hesitated in the doorway. “She’ll be all right, won’t she?” he asked, glancing toward the bed where Emily lay.

“I believe so,” Francis assured him, touched by the troubled look on the old man’s face.

With a brief nod, Parker turned and headed for the kitchen, eager to help in any way that he could. He returned an hour later.

“Dinner is served,” he announced, moving aside to allow Mrs. Reynolds to enter the room. She brought the poultice with her, along with clean strips of linen for dressing Emily’s wound, and some warm water with which to bathe it. A quiet settled over the room as she left, followed by Richard, Claire, and finally Parker, who closed the door behind him.

Rolling back the covers, Francis gently eased Emily up into a sitting position. He braced her with his arms while Beatrice moved to untie the bandage that swept over her shoulder and across her chest. Beatrice had been concerned about her sister’s modesty and had therefore wrapped a wide strip of cotton around her chest to prevent her breasts from being on constant display when they tended to her.

“It looks as though it’s healing well,” Francis remarked as he watched Beatrice dab at the wound with a wet piece of linen to wash away the old poultice. There was no sign of infection, just pink and swollen tissue with the first signs of a scab that had begun to form.

A soft groan startled both of them. “Emily?” Francis whispered. She groaned again, louder this time. “You’d best hurry up, Beatrice—I think she’s coming round.”

“I still have to pack the wound. Perhaps I’d best wait until she’s fully awake.”

Francis cursed under his breath. They had been used to a passive patient thus far, but Emily was already beginning to struggle against him, and he knew that what they were doing was paining her. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?” he whispered. “I know it hurts, but if you fight us, it will hurt even more. You were shot, and . . .” It was no use. Emily’s eyes flew open, wide with fear. And then she screamed, thrashing about like a madwoman.

Francis gritted his teeth together. “Do what you must,” he told Beatrice. “I will hold her.”

It took only five minutes to get the job done, but they were the longest five minutes of Francis’s life. Emily’s screams stabbed at his heart. He hated what they were doing to her and he suffered alongside her. Repeatedly he wished that it was he who had been wounded instead of her.

When it was over, he kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, and finally her lips as he stroked her hair with his hand to soothe her. “I’m so sorry, Emily. I’m so, so sorry,” he whispered.

She took a shaky breath as he eased her back down to rest against the pillow. “What happened?” she asked as she looked from one to the other.

Francis’s eyes met Beatrice’s, and he knew that she waited for him to tell her. “You were shot, Emily. Charlotte shot you.” He added softly, “you saved my life.”

She was quiet for a moment with concentration, and then her expression changed, and Francis knew that she remembered. “I did, didn’t I?” she smiled. Francis nodded. “I think that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.”

“And quite possibly the stupidest.” Both Emily and Beatrice turned their eyes on him. “You could have gotten yourself killed,” he explained.

“I had no choice, Francis. She meant to kill you, and I just know that she would have if I hadn’t stopped her. I couldn’t allow that to happen. I could never forgive myself for something like that—knowing that I could have prevented it, but that I did nothing. No, then I’d rather suffer a hundred bullets instead.” She moved slightly, but quickly regretted it, wincing as a sharp pain tore at her wound.

“Are you all right?” Francis asked before Beatrice had the chance to.

“I’ll be fine,” Emily told him with a hint of a laugh. “I suppose a little pain is to be expected.”

Though Beatrice was beginning to feel increasingly like a third wheel, she couldn’t help but be pleased at how much Francis clearly cared for her sister. She bent to give Emily a slight peck on the cheek, then told them both that she would go to fetch a plate of food for Emily.

“I still can’t believe that you would do such a thing,” Francis told her once they were alone. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I thought I might lose you.”

“Then you should understand better than anyone why I did what I did.” She sighed as she reached for his hand. “I’ve only just found the love of my life, though you were right in front of me for all these years. You are the man with whom I look forward to sharing my life, the man with whom I wish to grow old. What we have is unique, and I’m not willing to give that up for anything. So if that means taking a bullet to the shoulder, then so be it. All I know is that I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose you so easily. I love you, Francis, and I cannot wait to tell the world how much you mean to me.”

Francis looked at her with wonder. How he’d managed to be so lucky was beyond him. Emily was such a rare gift, and he felt honored by the very notion that she was his. Gone was the heartbroken girl who’d pined for Adrian. Before him sat a woman of tremendous courage who’d fearlessly thwarted their enemy. His heart swelled with pride as he leaned over to capture her lips in a long, heartfelt kiss.

“I was brave, wasn’t I?” she grinned.

“You were exceptional, Emily. I still can’t believe that you’re my wife. When should we tell the others?”

“Let’s wait until I’m well enough to get out of bed,” she suggested.

“All right, but not a moment longer. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” She paused for a moment as she bit down on her lip. “What happened to Charlotte?” she finally asked him curiously.

“She was caught off guard by you, so . . . I managed to hit her over the head with a brass candlestick before she had the chance to fire a second shot.”

Emily’s hands flew to her mouth to stop the sudden onset of laughter. “You hit your mother over the head with a candlestick?” Her eyes were beginning to water from the surge of giggles that exploded in her throat.

Francis’s eyes darkened. “She’s not my mother,” he grumbled. “Elisabeth was . . .”

“Oh, I know, my love, and I’m sorry,” Emily stammered as she gave way to her laughter. “But it’s just so ridiculous.”

Francis stared at her. Only Emily could find the humor in something as awful as what had happened. Her smile and her laughter were infectious, and he soon found it impossible not to laugh along with her. “Oh, I wish I could have seen it,” Emily grinned, wiping at the tears that spilled onto her cheeks. “Was there a loud thunk?” And for some reason, the thought of a candlestick producing a loud thunk as it struck Charlotte’s head made Emily laugh even more. Wincing at the pain her excitement had produced, she did her best to calm her amusement.

“Is she still alive?” she asked suddenly, realizing that such a blow to the head could have been fatal. “And the letter, Francis . . . what about the letter?”

Pushing Emily gently back onto her pillow, Francis gave her a slow nod. “Yes, she is still alive, though I’ll wager she’d rather be dead right now—she’ll be spending a great deal of time at Newgate instead of at my house in London. As for the letter—I retrieved it from her cloak pocket before anyone else arrived at the scene. It’s been destroyed.” His mind seemed to wander. “It surprises me that she never questioned the signature.”