Read My Favorite Countess Online
Authors: Vanessa Kelly
My Favorite Countess (6 page)
“But it's not safe,” he protested. “What if you encounter a highwayman?”
“My grooms carry pistols, Matthew.”
He made a choking noise. She finally took pity on him, turning around to meet his worried gaze.
“In case you were wondering,” she said, “I carry one, too.” And given the mood she was in, any highwayman who crossed her path might very well come to regret it.
Her cousin blinked rapidly. “You're a good girl, Sheba.”
“No, I'm not. You said it yourselfâI'm a harridan.” She gave him a bitter smile and left the room.
“We've arrived back at Compton Manor, my lady.”
Boland's Yorkshire burr penetrated the exhaustion that crushed Bathsheba into a listless daze. She blinked, forcing her bleary vision to focus on the comforting features of her longtime friend and abigail. The older woman sat bolt upright on the other seat of the carriage, looking as prim and self-contained as she had when they first set out from Thirsk several hours ago.
“Just a few more minutes, Lady Randolph, and I'll have you in a nice hot bath,” Boland added. “You can eat your supper in bed.”
Steel-framed spectacles obscured Boland's eyes, but Bathsheba could feel her perusing her carefully, as she had done for yearsâever since she was a little girl on her father's estate and Boland was her mother's nurse.
“And, your ladyship, we won't be leaving for London tomorrow, either. No, don't bother arguing with me. I won't have it.” The older woman glared at her, the rigid posture of her slight figure signaling her willingness to fight.
Actually, it hadn't even occurred to Bathsheba to object. Time grew pressing, but she couldn't bear the thought of days on the road, jostling through the heat and the dust, only to return to her empty town house and all the problems she must face. Five days by Rachel's bedside had left her worn to the bone and feeling as substantial as a wisp of steam from a teapot.
They came to a halt in front of Compton Manor. The steps to the coach were quickly let down, and her groom handed her with tender care to the gravel of the drive. She staggered, feeling woozy as she stepped into the glare of the hot summer day. Her stomach cramped with nausea and she had to close her eyes and grab hold of the carriage door.
A slim but strong arm came around her waist. “I knew this would affect you.” Boland's voice was grim. “You do too much, my lady. There was no need for you to sit up last nightâ”
“Hush,” snapped Bathsheba, mindful of the servants clustered about them. “Don't fuss, Boland. I just need rest.”
She shrugged off Boland's arm and headed to the door of the manor, which stood open in the fine weather. Her body ached with a weariness unlike any she had ever felt. Each step toward the house seemed to take her farther away, as if fatigue distorted the space before her. Even the air seemed to vibrate with a strange hum, a hum that dulled her senses and weighted down her limbs, making her wonder how she would ever manage to climb the stairs to her room.
“Sheba!”
Matthew rushed out the front door. He skidded to a halt in front of her, spraying gravel over the top of her half-boots before enveloping her in a fierce hug. She gave a gasp and stumbled against him, stunned by the searing pain that ripped through the muscles of her neck and back.
“My lord!” Boland's sharp voice cut into the haze of pain. “Her ladyship should not be kept standing out here in the heat. Nor does she need you mauling her.”
Matthew quickly released her and stepped back, unnerved as always by Boland's imperious manner. Bathsheba choked out a laugh that turned into a burning cough. She gasped, finally catching her breath.
“You forget yourself, Boland,” she managed.
Her abigail stared back defiantly, and Bathsheba relented. “Go to my room and prepare a bath. I'll be up in a few minutes.”
“See that you are,” Boland muttered in a low voice as she stalked into the house.
“Honestly, Sheba, that woman is a menace,” said Matthew.
“Forgive her, Cousin,” she replied, taking his arm and steering him into the house. “It's been a long five days, and we're both very tired.”
If every muscle in her body didn't ache so much, Bathsheba was certain she could have fallen asleep standing upright.
“Is everything all right?” Matthew peered at her anxiously as he helped her up the front steps and into the cool dark of the entrance hall. “Is . . .”
“Yes. All is well, thank goodness.” She glanced around. The servants were busy unloading her luggage and hauling it up the stairs to her chambers.
She leaned in close to Matthew. “Rachel's fever broke yesterday morning. The doctor expects her to make a full recovery.”
Relief washed over his face. “Thank God. Was it very bad?”
She rubbed her eyes, which suddenly felt dry as dust and stung like the devil. “Yes. Those first few days I thought we would lose her. But Rachel is strong, despite her physical ailments.”
Matthew smiled at her. “And she did all the better for having you there, I'm sure.”
She nodded wearily. Her heart ached when she recalled the way her sister had clung to her. Rachel couldn't talk, but she'd had no difficulty communicating that she wanted Bathshebaâand only Bathshebaâby her bedside. Boland and Mrs. Wilson had spelled her whenever Rachel slept, but that wasn't often as the fever drove her sister to a restless agony that had subsided only yesterday.
She smothered a gaping yawn behind her gloved hand. No wonder she felt ready to drop. She hadn't slept more than a few hours at a time in five days.
“What a beast I am to keep you here talking, as if you don't need your rest,” exclaimed Matthew. “Go up to bed, Sheba. You can tell me all about it later.”
She started toward the stairs but came to a halt when her stomach seemed to do a slow revolution into her chest. Black threads began to drift before her eyes. Another step and the floor undulated beneath her feet, at once closer and yet somehow farther away. She stumbled, reaching for the newel post on the banister.
“Bathsheba!” Matthew's face loomed close through the tangle of black threads now obscuring her vision.
“I'm sorry, dear.” A stranger's voice came out of her mouthâthat of a weak and sickly girl. “I might need your help getting up the stairs.”
But before he could grab her, she tumbled forward, sinking into a cold mist that rushed up from the floor.
John cursed, ducking low over his horse's neck as he narrowly avoided a branch hanging in his path. He had decided to save time by taking a shortcut through the home woods of Compton Manorâclearly a mistake. The forest seemed to be in no better shape than the rest of the estate, and he doubted that any groundskeeper or woodsman had passed this way in a long time.
He steered the big roan around some broken tree limbs, guiding him through the creeping underbrush that narrowed the trail to little better than a goat track. Impatience and some other elusive emotion scraped along his nerves as he held the horse back to a walk.
There was little reason to believe Lady Randolph suffered from anything more than a minor complaint, and God knew the spoiled ladies of the ton loved to call for the doctor at the slightest sign of a cough. Still, the missive from Lord Randolph contained a genuine sense of urgency and more than a hint of fear.
John had been surprised when the Randolph footman brought word the countess was ill, as he'd assumed she'd left for London days ago. But after reading the note, he'd thrown down his napkin and abandoned his tea. Taking the stairs up to his room two at time, he had retrieved his medical bag, grabbed his hat, and rushed off to the stables.
Now, as the horse picked its way through the woods, he wondered again why he felt the need to dance attendance on a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. An intelligent man would have waited for Littleton to return from Sunday services and sent him to Compton Manor in his stead. An intelligent man would give the viperish little countess as wide a berth as possible. Obviously, John was not that man.
The trees began to thin and the horse finally broke out into an open field. He urged the animal into a canter, heading toward a low hedge on the other side of the gravel drive that led to the house. They cleared the hedge and a few minutes later he was dismounting from the roan. A waiting footman hurried to take the reins.
John strode through the front door, expecting the butler, but almost colliding with the earl instead.
“Dr. Blackmore. Thank God!”
Randolph looked frantic, his eyes bugging out of his sockets as he grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the large staircase. A butler materialized beside them, bleating plaintively as he tried to take John's hat.
“Oh, hang it, Sewell. There's no time for that,” Randolph blustered.
John halted at the bottom of the stairs and gently pried the earl's clutching hand from his sleeve.
“Calm yourself, my lord. You will not assist her ladyship by working yourself into a frenzy,” he said in a soothing voice.
The earl practically danced in front of him, his frustration and fear so palpable John could almost taste it.
“Just breathe, my lord, slow and steady.” He kept his voice reassuring, waiting patiently for the earl to regain his control. The other man took a few deep breaths and the color returned to his face.
“Very good, Lord Randolph. Now, why don't you tell me about her ladyship's symptoms as we walk to her room?”
He nodded encouragement as the earl attempted to explain what had happened to the countess. His confused and anxious ramblings shed little light on the situation, but one thing was clearâLady Randolph had likely contracted a dangerous illness from someone, although who that someone was seemed rather vague.
They stopped at the end of a long gallery and Randolph knocked softly on a door.
“Her abigail is taking care of her,” he said in a loud stage whisper. “A real termagant, but an excellent woman. Been with my cousin since she was a girl.”
John sighed. He'd dealt with any number of possessive and ignorant lady's maids in his time, and they almost always made the situation worse.
The door opened and they stepped inside.
“Here's Dr. Blackmore, Miss Boland. I'm sure he'll make everything as right as rain.”
A thin, tidily dressed older woman wearing spectacles gave him a quick inspection and then dropped into a brief curtsy. Unlike the earl, she was the picture of self-possession.
“How is your mistress?” John inquired as he crossed to a huge canopied bed set against the wall. The room was shuttered and dim, lit only by one small lamp, and he blinked several times as he struggled to see.
“Very hot, sir, and yet to recover from her faint. She talks a bit, but makes no sense.”
He could barely make out the slight figure in the bed.
“Miss Boland, would you open the drapes, please?” He tugged at his cravat. “And the window, as well. It's much too close in here.”
She came to stand on the other side of the bed. One hand reached out to touch Lady Randolph's arm.
“The light seems to bother her eyes, sir. And I've always been told it's best to keep windows shut and the room warm when there's fever present.” She sounded firm, but not belligerent or hostile.
“While that is often accepted as common wisdom, I've found that a little fresh air can make the patient more comfortable. Besides,” he said, giving her a friendly smile, “I can't see Lady Randolph well enough to assess her condition.”
For long seconds she stared at him with a wary gaze, and he wondered if he'd have an ally or an enemy in this particular battle. Then she nodded and moved to the window.
Ally.
She pulled the curtain back and sunlight flooded the room. The woman on the bed flinched and gave a pathetic whimper. He looked down at her and blinked again, his vision once more adapting to the change in light. As her features came into focus, he suppressed an exclamation of surprise.
Stripped of her finery and her carefully applied paints, Lady Randolph looked a good deal younger. Pale and sweaty, her thick hair plastered to her skull, she seemed intensely vulnerable and innocent. And even in the grip of what was clearly a high fever, still lovely.
“How is she, Doctor?” called Lord Randolph from across the room.
John gave himself a swift mental kick, cursing his lack of self-control. He couldn't help her if he thought like a man. Pushing away all emotion, he retreated to the part of his mind that allowed him to become a scientist and nothing more. In the beginning, he'd found it difficult to distance himself from his patients, but since Becky's death six years ago it had become a simple and welcome exercise.
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