The reluctant cavalier (11 page)

And now she had allowed her mother to come to harm because of her selfishness in insisting on going to a silly masquerade, a thing that mattered naught when compared to her mother's life and health. Truly, she should not wait, but accept the duke's proposal as soon as she could. Her stomach tightened at the thought, but she made herself relax and focused her attention upon her mother again.

Annabella put another cold cloth upon the bump on her mother's head and rubbed her mother's hands. "Oh, please, please, Mama, be well," she whispered.

A knock sounded on the door, and a maid, accompanied by the doctor entered. Annabella made room for the portly man, Doctor Robinson, who examined the bump upon Lady Smith's head, and examined her limbs for any sprains or breaks. A slight moan issued from Lady Smith's lips as he examined her, and she opened her eyes.

"Annabella?" Her voice was a whisper.

Her daughter rushed to her and clasped her hand. "Mama, I am here."

Lady Smith smiled. "Sweet child. I remember..." A painful frown creased her brow.

Doctor Robinson leaned toward her. "My lady, you remember?" he prompted.

"The man, he pushed me, he thought I was—" Her eyes became wild and frightened, and she held Annabella's hand tightly. "He wanted to harm you, love. We must leave here."

The doctor raised his grizzled eyebrows and turned to Annabella. "Is this true?"

She nodded. "Yes, I saw it, from a distance. I would not have, had not the Cavalier—a gentleman dressed as a Cavalier—gone to her rescue. He frightened the man away and brought my mother here."

"Most irregular." The doctor frowned. "Lord Grafton will need to be notified—or better, Mr. Wentworth. He knows the estate better than anyone, and that lad's a sight more dependable, no disrespect meant to his lordship, mind you. However, it is good that my lady's faculties seem to be in order—no loss of memory."

"How soon can we go home?" Annabella asked.

"In two weeks, perhaps more." He gently propped her mother up in the bed and gave her a draught of medicine.

"Two weeks ... ?" she faltered.

"Quite. Her concussion is bad, though not severe. But her ankle may have suffered a slight fracture or a sprain—I cannot tell precisely until the swelling has gone down—and will take quite a while to mend before she can stand on it again. She will be too dizzy to be moved, and must stay prone for at least a week at the start."

"Oh, no! We cannot impose—we must go home—"

The doctor gave her a kindly look. "I am sorry, but that is not possible if your mother is to be well." He turned to the maid and requested that she call Mr. Wentworth, then held up his hand when Annabella opened her mouth to protest. "I know, it is late. But someone in this household should know my opinion of your mother's condition, and I have found Master Parsifal to be a young man of good sense and much understanding. He already knows your mother was hurt, for it was he who told me of it when I arrived—I imagine that Cavalier fellow of yours must have told him."

It was not long before Mr. Wentworth entered, looking rumpled and sleepy-eyed. It was clear he had been roused from his bed. Annabella blushed, feeling more miserable than ever. She not only caused her mother to be hurt, but she was now inconveniencing her hosts, as well.

She watched as the doctor explained his diagnosis to Mr. Wentworth, who listened intently and nodded his head. She saw him glance at her, and she looked hastily away. It was necessary that her mother not be moved so that she could be cared for, but Annabella did not like to be beholden to anyone, and she felt horribly awkward because of it.

Finally, the doctor left, leaving instructions for the tincture of arnica and the other remedies he had left behind. She heard the door close, and she returned to the chair beside her mother, who was asleep, this time from the medicine the doctor had given her. A soft footstep behind her made her look up—it was Mr. Wentworth, his face concerned and kind. Annabella almost burst into tears seeing his obvious compassion—she did not deserve such kindness.

"I am sorry your mother is injured, but it is not as bad as it looks. Doctor Robinson has said so, and I trust his judgment, for I have known him all my life, and he has done well for my family. I have had a room prepared for you; I think it best that you rest."

Annabella let out a half-sobbing breath. "I—no. No, I must watch over my mother. What if she should become worse?"

He took her hand and held it in both of his own, looking earnestly into her eyes. "It will do her no good if you should exhaust yourself. I will have maids watch over her during the night, and if anything should change, they will alert you, I promise you."

"No, I—I—"

"Please, Miss Smith."

She looked up at him and saw the worried crease on his brow, and his eyes, warm and kind, as he gazed at her.

"If it would make you feel better, I shall watch her myself, with a maid in attendance as well," he offered.

Annabella's heart warmed. How kind he was, when he was clearly tired himself! No, she could not inconvenience him so ... and perhaps he was right. Perhaps her mother's injury was not so bad as she feared, and she would be well with only maids attending her, as Mr. Wentworth said. She smiled at him and rose.

"I am sorry. I have been foolish, have I not? No, you need not attend her, and I am sure a maid will suffice. I will sleep, as you suggest." She bit her lip and glanced once more at her mother. "But you
will
instruct the maids to tell me if she wakens?"

He smiled, and Annabella remembered the impression of spring and sweet air that had come to her the last time she had seen him smile, at the Bowerlands' gallery. His presence was so solid and real. A brief image of his arms around her, her head laid upon his chest in a comfortable way flitted through her mind. She blushed slightly and dismissed the thought—she was tired and had been frightened. Mr. Wentworth would make sure all would be well. Her heart lifted and made her smile a little in return.

"Of course, Miss Smith. I promise you I will. Now, if you will come with me, I will escort you to your room. There should be a maid there by now to help you ready yourself for sleep." He put her hand on his arm and led her from the room.

They said nothing as he took her down the hall, but she felt no awkwardness, even though he was silent, and she was used to gentlemen making conversation whatever the situation. Surely, Doctor Robinson was right in saying she could depend on Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Wentworth's solid presence beside her was comforting, and his arm beneath her hand felt strong and capable of carrying any burden. Annabella let out a sigh and felt her shoulders loosen and drop away their tension.

They came to her room, only a few doors away from her mother's, and Mr. Wentworth put up his hand to open the door.

"Wait—"

He stopped and looked at her, his brows raised in question.

"Please ... I wish to thank you. You have been so kind—"

A slightly alarmed look came into his eyes. "I—no, no, it was nothing. Anyone might have—"

She took his hand and pressed it. "You were wakened from your sleep to tend to my mother and myself—an inconvenience. The Cavalier—a gentleman dressed as a Cavalier—was very brave; it was he who brought my mother here. But he left—" She gave a small, incredulous laugh. "Like a ghost, or a dream. Then you came and were so comforting and kind." She lifted his hand to her cheek in a brief, impulsive gesture. "Thank you. And good night." She opened the door to her room and with a last, grateful smile, went in and shut the door behind her.

Parsifal stared at the door and half raised his hand, as if he could still see Annabella's image before him. His hand dropped, and with a long, slow sigh, he turned and walked down the hall to his own room.

Sir Quentin walked along the moonlit road to where he had tied his horse earlier that evening. He kicked a stone and muttered a curse under his breath. It had been a stupid idea to try to find Miss Smith at the masquerade. It was nearly impossible to discern which lady she might be in such a crush. At least it was none of his idea, but his employer's idea. He could not be blamed for failing at such an impossible task. He cursed again and kicked more stones, watching how they scattered into the dark, then shrugged. At least Lord Grafton had a good cellar; he had drunk his fill of the wine and punch that had flowed freely there.

"Sir Quentin Barnaby."

He jerked up his head. It was not his horse before him, but a tall, dark shape ... and he knew the voice. He swallowed and wet his lips, suddenly dry.

"What is it you want?" he croaked.

"You failed again." The voice was devoid of emotion and chilled Sir Quentin more than the icy tone he'd heard before.

"It was not my idea to search her out at this masquerade—it was yours, if you remember! No one could find her in such a crush of people!"

"But I did, Barnaby. I danced with her twice. You could have done the same, and more."

"Well, why don't you deal with her, then?"

"It was
you
I hired to seduce Miss Smith. You did not do the job. I see I was mistaken in hiring someone so inept." The dark man took a step toward him. Sir Quentin stepped backward, stumbled, and fell.

"I do not suffer fools gladly, Barnaby," said the man, his voice softer now. He came closer, with a lilting step, and Sir Quentin saw the gleam of moonlight on a silver-headed walking stick. He crawled backward, trying to get away, but the metallic hiss of a withdrawn sword struck his ears and twisted his gut with fear. He swallowed and felt the prick of the sword-stick at his throat. "I do not like failure," said the voice, even softer now, light and caressing. "So ... untidy, do you not agree?" The point pressed against Sir Quentin's throat.

"Please—"

The man stared at what was left of Sir Quentin Barnaby and regretted what he had done. He did not like to kill in this way—he did not like the blood to come out, because there was a chance it would touch him, and surely the blood of someone like Sir Quentin was tainted and difficult to wash off. Indeed, he did not like to kill at all, but surely to rid the world of someone as stupid and impure as Sir Quentin was not a terrible thing.

The man walked carefully to his waiting coach, just out of sight of the body of Sir Quentin. Beginning tomorrow he would watch Miss Annabella Smith, himself. And then he would begin to test her.

"Home, Peters," he said to the groom as he stepped into the coach. "Oh, and there is the body of... a miscreant back there—please be sure to retrieve it tonight, so that I may turn it over to the authorities."

"Very good, Your Grace," replied the servant. The groom's voice shook, but the Duke of Stratton ignored it.

Peters always did as he was told, for he was paid well and knew life would go ill for him if he did not follow orders.

The duke sighed. He had done wrong in hiring such a man as Sir Quentin to test Miss Smith. He admitted that to himself. But he would not make that mistake again. It would be best if he attend to her himself. It was the only way. She had to be pure; it was what he required in a wife, and more than that, for his cure.

The back of his hand itched, and he rubbed the spot on his glove that was above the sore. He had thought that he had been cured of the French disease after taking that girl— purported to be a virgin—at the bordello. But the whore must not have been, for here was the sore again, this time upon his hand. He had punished her for her deception, and had been careful not to shed any of her blood.

He knew, then, that he had gone about it in the wrong way. One could not be sure of the women in the procuring houses. But a lady was a different matter—it was far more likely that a young lady of quality would be pure. But, of course, one could not be absolutely sure about the matter, for women were deceitful creatures, after all.

He had tested her a little, held her hand longer than necessary, and tried to take a kiss from her earlier in the evening. She had turned her head, and his kiss had landed on her cheek, but she had allowed him to hold her hand longer than usual. Her demeanor was cool toward him, the demeanor of an untouched girl. On the other hand, it was difficult for him to tell whether this was modesty or coyness.

He smiled to himself in the darkness. No, he would watch Miss Annabella Smith, then test her further and see if she was truly loose in her morals. For only the purest of women could be his wife and the cure for his affliction.

Annabella woke to a feeling of oppression, as if something were pressing upon her chest. She made herself take a deep breath and let it out again, then opened her eyes. She was not in her room, but one with walls of cream, with apple green drapes. Memories came rushing to her of the night before. Of course. She was at Wentworth Abbey, the home of the Earl of Graf ton and the Wentworth family. And her mother had been attacked and grievously hurt.

She rose and pulled the bell rope to summon a servant. A quick glance at the clock upon the mantelpiece showed her it was noon. To be sure she had not got to sleep until near dawn, but she wished she had awakened earlier. She must dress quickly and see if her mother was well. No one had awakened her in the night, so she supposed her mother was not worse ... but was she any better?

A dressing gown had been draped at the foot of the bed—borrowed from whom, Annabella did not know. But she put it on and waited impatiently for a maid.

A knock on the door preceded the maid, who carried in a petticoat and a round dress of pink muslin. "If it please you, miss, Master Parsifal had this brought to you from Miss Caroline's wardrobe, seein' as how you was of a size."

"Mr. Wentworth? Then Lord Grafton is not in residence?" Annabella asked.

"I can't say, miss," said the girl, shaking out the dress and laying it carefully upon the bed. "We don't ever know when Lord Grafton might come home, or when he leaves, or how long he will stay. But Master Parsifal never leaves,or hardly ever, so we go to him for our orders, unless we know Lord Grafton is here. "Pis easier, you see."