The Outcast Earl (4 page)

Reneging would likely cost Abigail more and less than she’d been told. Returning to her mother’s household would mean watching Gloria’s marriage to a detestable man Abigail distrusted, and Abigail would afterward be destined to oversee the legions of men who were preparing for Genevieve’s coming out, much as a companion or chaperone. Still, despite Winchester’s dire warnings of financial ruin, Abigail did not believe for even a moment that the Earl of Meriden would actually cast the de Rothesay sisters into the street. Even if he did detest her parents and meant to ruin them, she knew such a move against the unmarried siblings would forevermore ruin him socially. No doubt the Duke of Lennox would take them into his home based on Gloria’s marriage to his son, anyway. Financial stability was, after all, one of the reasons Gloria had decided to go ahead with her marriage.

If it hadn’t meant the loss of Fiona’s near-constant companionship, the new and unwelcome distance from her sisters, marriage to a stranger, her unsatisfied curiosity over her future duties at Meriden Park and the callous nature of the arrangement that had decided her fate, Abigail wouldn’t have been so displeased. What female of managing mind would not want a great house with dozens of rooms and servants to organise?

Across the room, the doctor rose from his chair beside the bed and began repacking his bag. The maids hurried to do his bidding, and Abigail advanced as well, ready to help make her aunt comfortable.

The doctor glanced at her and smiled, then moved her way. “She recovered consciousness briefly in the dray, but moving her inside caused her to slip away again,” he said quietly. “I’ve administered laudanum to keep her sleeping well into tomorrow. Otherwise, she would feel the pain and be exceedingly difficult as a patient. If we could speak downstairs?”

“Of course,” Abigail murmured, turning.

Frowning, she thought she ought to lead, but had no idea where to go. Upon entering the house, she’d followed the footmen bearing her aunt up the stairs. From there, she’d briefly seen her own room while one of the Meriden chambermaids had assisted her in removing her bloodied and torn clothing. The girl had brushed her hair and dressed her in simple garments that belonged, she had said, to Meriden’s seamstress, Mrs Grady, the butler’s wife.

After she had been dressed, footmen had carried in her travelling trunk. The exterior was damaged and the contents disordered, but Abigail had been grateful to see that nearly everything seemed to be intact. The trunk contained clothing sufficient for a week or so, and the carters were on their way with the remainder of Abigail’s belongings. After digging out a pair of slippers for her feet, Abigail had limped back across the hall to find the doctor examining her aunt, assisted by Grady and a matronly housekeeper who had been introduced as Mrs Carlton.

Despite her hesitancy now, she led them to the door. Her own chamber was directly across the upper gallery from her aunt’s large room. She expected the earl’s private apartment would be at the far end of the long gallery, at the opposite end of the house. She remembered a large, high, bay-windowed anteroom with long windows at the head of the stairs. The drapes had not been drawn, but the lamps had been lit. There had been a lounging chaise and a few chairs with small tables scattered about.

At least she knew where it was.

They exited the room together and the doctor said in a kindly way, “And how are you? You are limping.”

Abigail summoned a smile and trudged on. “My ankle is simply a bit bruised, somewhat twisted, nothing more. I will be fine.”

“I’d like to examine it, Lady Abigail, if only to ensure it isn’t any more seriously injured. You’ll need to rest so that it can heal properly.”

“I cannot be confined to a bed,” Abigail objected. “Aunt Betsy will need my time and attention, and indulging a silly twisted ankle while she is in so much pain is selfish and somewhat cowardly.”

Just as she finished they reached the stairs, and she turned to the bay, motioning the doctor in that direction.

It was only after they’d clearly entered the space that she saw the earl standing at the dark window, glowering at her.

“Ah, there you are, Meriden.” The doctor spoke before Abigail could think up a single word, even an inappropriate one. “I must say I am glad to see you, though the circumstances leave something to be desired.”

Meriden’s infuriated gaze shifted over to the middle-aged physician and his face relaxed a bit. With a wave to the chaise in Abigail’s direction, he spoke instead to the doctor. “I have to say, I’m happy to not have seen you recently, at least not in a professional capacity. But it has been too long since you’ve visited, James. Why don’t you plan on coming to stay for a few days? Surely this is a good time, what with an unfortunate patient—excuse me,
three
patients—in the house?” He turned his gaze to Abigail, who was sitting obediently on the chaise while fuming over his obvious lack of manners. He met her eyes for two seconds, then said softly, “I believe Lady Abigail was about to ask you to look at her ankle. I, too, would feel much relieved to have her diagnosis of a twist confirmed by your expertise.”

Abigail watched the third man confidently set his bag on one of the accent tables and approach her, clearly judging the earl’s instructions to supercede her own wishes. Reluctantly, her feet already up on the chaise, she shifted so that he could lift her skirt out of the way and remove her slipper.

She’d not donned stockings, being in a rush to check on her aunt, and now she wished she had.

Perhaps this was less humiliating, she reconsidered, watching him inspect the joint carefully. It felt odd—and somehow illicit—to have her foot bare before a man other than the physician. It would have been more than unnerving to think of removing her stockings in the gallery, with Meriden watching.

She jerked when Dr Franklin twisted the foot slightly, and sat back in relief when he returned it to the chaise.

“You have no other injuries, then?” he asked kindly, looking intently at her face.

Abigail smiled, a bit tiredly, and shook her head. “I’m very tired, of course, what with the shock wearing off now, but I’ll be much improved come morning.” She refused to mention her bruised back, or the persistent shivers that were threatening. Those she could manage privately, after all.

“We can’t have you sitting up all night with your aunt, then,” the doctor insisted, seeming to read her intentions. “I know you asked for a cot to be brought up to your aunt’s room but I do think a maid shall be sufficient. Your aunt will sleep all night, and your ankle—not to mention the bruises on your shins—will heal best if you sleep well. We shall need you tomorrow, preferably on your feet.”

Grimacing, Abigail nodded, privately protesting that the cot would be perfectly restful. No maid—certainly no maid who had not met Aunt Betsy before the carriage accident—would be able to replace a beloved niece. The only suitable candidate was Abigail’s own maid, Jenna, who was also in a drugged sleep in the service wing, having been diagnosed with a broken arm and serious wrenching of her spine and shoulder. She’d been thrown from the top of the carriage, but luckily had not landed underneath it.

“How is Lady Arlington?” the earl inquired evenly. He had withdrawn to the shadows a bit, making it difficult for Abigail to see him, but his voice carried easily in the gloom.

“She’ll need some time to recover—she’s had a nasty knock, certainly a concussion in addition to the wound itself. We won’t know how serious it is until she wakes, but in my judgement she needs to be asleep until it heals a bit. She could experience memory loss, migraines or a loss of articulate speech, or wake up in perfect health.” The doctor’s voice was easy, and as he spoke Abigail watched him wrap her ankle in a tight bandage, then tie the end expertly. “I’ll return tomorrow just after lunch, as her laudanum won’t wear off until then.”

Abigail wouldn’t be able to put her slipper back on, but she’d be able to hobble back to her room for better footwear. “As for Lady Abigail, she’s correct. It is a twist. She’ll be perfectly normal in a day or two, as long as she doesn’t overdo it. And no dancing until two in the morning, young lady,” he added, raising an informal eyebrow in her direction.

Abigail had to smile at the jest. “Why, then,” she returned smartly, “let us hope his lordship has not planned a Grand Ball to be held before my dancing slippers arrive and are unpacked.”

The doctor’s eyebrows lifted and he laughed. “Why, I’m not sure his lordship even knows where his own ballroom is located in this great monstrosity of a house,” he assured her.

“Directly beneath the earl’s apartments,” Meriden supplied brusquely. “James, what do you say, can’t you stay?”

If he stayed, the doctor would likely sit up in her aunt’s room. Abigail waited, quite still. At least, she thought, he was a doctor, but then he shook his head. “Not tonight. I need to be near the bell. Mrs Silverthorn and Mrs Manwaring are likely to need me anytime, and the baker’s mother is near her last day. But I do appreciate the offer, Charles.”

Abigail blinked, but Meriden strolled from the shadows, seemingly unaffected by the casual use of his given name. “I’ll see you out then.” He laid a hand on the doctor’s back. “I’m sure Lady Abigail will be happy to sit and rest for a few moments until I come back.” He glanced at Abigail, who busied herself with attempting to replace her slipper, deliberately avoiding his glance. She had no intention of reclining on the chaise until his return, but saw no reason to inform him of the fact.

He wouldn’t dare cause a scene when she was with her aunt, even if that aunt was sleeping, and at least a few servants were certain to be in the room.

He wouldn’t dare. Would he?

Abigail collected loose cotton slippers from her room and went directly to her aunt’s chamber. She kissed the lady’s cheek and inspected the wound Dr Franklin had meticulously cleaned as the maid slipped out for new washing water. She’d just seated herself in a chair near the bed when the door to Aunt Betsy’s chamber was flung open. Gasping, she glanced up as the Earl of Meriden strode through with as much circumspection as a frigate in Derbyshire.

He spoke not a word, but stood before her, the scowl on his face darker than ever. Conscious of her exhaustion and her mostly bloodshot eyes, Abigail still sat proudly erect on the chair’s edge, her body properly poised for discussion. Rapidly processing his apparent unhappy mood, she improvised as much of a self-introduction as possible as she stood. “Lady Abigail de Rothesay, as you know, my lord. A pleasure to meet you,” she finished, bobbing a proper curtsy and retaking her seat.

If anything, his frown darkened. “Of all the witless, senseless, disobedient—” he began, then broke off the words. “My name is Charles.”

To her surprise, he bent down and lifted her, his arm sliding beneath her knees and his other holding her up against his chest. Abigail squealed and now returned his glare, helpless to do anything but grab the front of his coat and hang on. Without a word, he turned and strode from the room, stopping abruptly in the corridor beyond the door. A footman and two maids immediately materialised from deeper in the corridor. Ignoring Abigail’s indignant squirming in his arms, he said to them, “Please arrange for someone to sit with Lady Arlington and a maid to sit with Lady Abigail. They may need assistance during the night.”

Without waiting for an answer, he continued to Abigail’s door and pushed it open, then strode in. Making directly for the bed, he dropped her unceremoniously on it. When Abigail sat up, Meriden held up a hand and said stiffly, “If you know what is good for you, you’ll stay in that bed until tomorrow morning. If—and only if—you can walk without limping, I shall see you in the library at ten, as Dr Franklin has assured both of us Lady Arlington will sleep until after the lunch hour. However, if I find you anywhere in the house besides this bed before that hour, I shall not be held responsible for the consequences.”

Inhaling abruptly, Abigail began to speak. “Why, you—” But by then he had already turned and was making for the door.

With no more ceremony than that, he shut the door hard behind him, leaving Abigail to stare indignantly at the inside panels. “You brute,” she finally seethed.

To her surprise, the door opened just as the word ended and, after a startled moment where she imagined Meriden might have heard her and was returning, Abigail realised it was simply the maid who had helped her earlier.

“Are you ready for bed then, milady?” she asked cheerfully and, with a sigh, Abigail nodded. Surely the man wouldn’t be up all night. By most customs, he’d be awake until the early morning hours and then sleep late into the morning, probably rolling out of bed just in time for the hour of their appointed discussion. She’d check on Aunt Betsy then, when all was quiet—by dawn at the latest.

In the meantime, she could think about him. About all that was
different
about him. She hadn’t realised it at first, when they were out in the dark carriage, but it had struck her even in that short distance between Aunt Betsy’s room and her bed.

He hadn’t touched her with the careful restraint she expected of gentlemen. Meriden’s hands had splayed possessively over her hips and his fingers had slid up and under her breast as he’d turned her. He hadn’t been doing anything
improper
, but then again, carrying her across a corridor wasn’t precisely proper either. Still, he’d gripped her firmly. He hadn’t been tentative, but he hadn’t been obnoxiously groping her, either. He wasn’t afraid of her. He behaved as if it was his right to touch her so, and as if she should not imagine protesting.

The reasonable, rational, sensible Abigail found his directness somewhat nerve racking, but a small, tentative part of her stomach awoke and told her that she liked it. She liked being unnerved. That small part of her wondered what else he could do to unnerve her. So while she was still awake, Abigail wondered.

* * * *

As she had expected, Abigail slept poorly. At times, she’d felt Meriden was right to disregard formality in their particular circumstances. Treating him as she would a brief acquaintance was hardly going to be possible. Still, she also stewed over the audacity of the earl and his behaviour.