Читать книгу A Promise by Daylight - Alison DeLaine - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

“I MUST ADVISE against carriage travel, Your Grace,” Millie warned the next morning as she followed the duke down the main staircase. His greatcoat sat around his shoulders like a cape, unable to be worn properly because of his sling.

“Advice noted,” he said.

“Your wounds could easily be aggravated in a way that could cause your condition to worsen and your journey to be further delayed.”

“Advice noted, Mr. Germain.”

They exited the front door and climbed into the waiting coach—the two of them, alone, sitting across from each other as the coach lurched into motion. Millie grabbed for her medical bag to keep it from tumbling to the floor.

“If you must have your entertainment, then I highly suggest you have it at home,” she said irritably. If he thought he could drag her around Paris and force her to attend him at the city’s various houses of pleasure, he was very much mistaken. “I never agreed to provide my services at a brothel.”

He looked at her—expression blank, eyes inscrutable—and returned his gaze out the window, dark and pensive.

The coach clattered through the streets, grand and ornate with velvet cushions that felt like being seated on a cloud. She watched him brood in silence, noticed his jaw clench each time the coach hit a rut.

For heaven’s sake, what entertainment could possibly be worth what he must be suffering? The damage he would likely do to his wounds? She’d read about this kind of abnormality—men for whom no pleasure was ever enough, who exposed themselves to any kind of danger in pursuit of ever greater stimulation, until...

The coach slowed.

The duke’s lips thinned.

The coach came to a stop—

Next to a cemetery.

“Wait here,” he ordered when the coach door opened.

Dear God. Harris and Sacks had been mistaken. Lord Winston was attending the burial, after all.

She watched him climb out, clearly in considerably greater pain than when he had climbed in. A footman opened the cemetery gate, but he waved the servant away. Beyond, among the headstones, a group of people was already gathered. A fine mist put a sheen on every stone and blade of grass.

A woman dressed in black sank into a curtsy the moment he joined them. The duke reached out to stop her and pull her gently upright. Nearby, five children huddled together.

He ordered five hundred pounds sent this afternoon.

And now he was here, standing out in the drizzle with his injuries doubtless paining him like the devil, clasping his hands in front of him while a priest spoke at the edge of the grave.

Millie watched through the coach window. A slow bead of moisture skidded down the outside of the pane. Next to the grave, the widow held a handkerchief to her face.

When he finally turned back toward the coach, Millie scooted away from the window and opened her medical bag, pretending to be preoccupied with the contents.

He climbed carefully back into the coach. Settled against the seat. Inhaled deeply. Exhaled. “Sodding, bloody state of affairs,” he muttered as the coach rolled away.

“My condolences,” she said.

“I didn’t even know the man.” He stared out at the passing streets as they clattered back toward the house. “He left a widow and five children.” And that upset him. The distress was plain on his face.

“It was kind of you to think of them today,” she said.

“Kind.” The word shot from his lips, and his eyes shifted to her. “Kindness never raised the dead, Mr. Germain.”

“Perhaps not, but it shows them respect, and it comforts the living.” Which he already knew, or he would not have risked his own health to attend.

“He was an utter stranger. The entire debacle was complete happenstance—matter of timing. He died, I didn’t.” He said it flatly, matter-of-factly.

But a shiver touched her deep inside. “I see.”

His hooded gaze said she could not possibly see. And his attention returned to the window.

The man seated across from her was not the man she’d met yesterday in his bedchamber, surrounded by highflyers.

“How are your injuries?” she asked.

“A man is dead, Mr. Germain. My injuries are nothing next to that.”

“They will be if they fester and leave you dead, as well.”

“Perhaps that would only be perverse justice.”

It took a moment to credit his words. “Forgive me,” she ventured slowly. “Of course your own death would put everything to rights.”

“Mock me again,” he said sharply, looking at her once more, “and you’ll return to Lady Pennington minus your wages.”

The coach hit an especially deep pothole, and he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. For a moment she could almost imagine she felt his pain herself.

“Is there anything I can do that will help?” she said, more gently than she might have.

Those dark eyes opened, fixing on her with a shadow of pain that no compress could touch. “Are there any medicaments you can prescribe that will undo the past, Mr. Germain?”

* * *

IF THERE WERE any such medicaments, she would gladly take them herself.

After they returned to the house, Millie applied fresh dressings and compresses to his wounds and gave him a concoction to drink, and then there was nothing left to do for him except leave him to rest.

Downstairs in the library, she scoured the shelves for anything medical, and finally found a French volume about the nervous system that had been published in the past century, tucked in a row of books wedged between bookends formed like a woman’s bottom and thighs.

She sighed and slipped the volume from the shelf. It was better than nothing.

For a moment she stared at those bookends, thinking of the man who owned them. If he’d been contemplating pleasures of the flesh this afternoon, he’d given no hint of it.

All around, the ornate library testified to his decadent mode of living. Here, as in the salon where she’d waited yesterday, the ceilings boasted vast paintings of colorful and illicit love affairs, edged by intricate plasterwork decorated with gold.

The furnishings were lush, befitting his rank, yet scattered about the room in an almost careless manner that seemed to perfectly reflect the man himself.

And yet...

Was it possible the accident truly had affected him? Could this afternoon have marked the first inkling of changes to come?

Her gaze landed on a Grecian plaque depicting a variety of ancient sex acts. Of course not, Millicent. A man like that doesn’t change.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the memory of his demeanor in the coach—his troubled eyes, his silence, as if perhaps he truly was grieving the death of a stranger.

There was no knowing, so she ordered tea, went upstairs and locked herself away in her dressing room to study until he awoke and required her attention again.

Within two hours’ time, she began to hear noise through the wall. Five minutes more, ten, fifteen, and the noise and laughter coming from His Grace’s suite of rooms had grown to a crescendo.

She stared at the bookcase. He had company again? So much for the inkling of changes to come.

She continued trying to read, but concentration became impossible. Plugging her ears only proved distracting. She caught herself clenching her teeth and finally stood up, glaring at the bookcase.

What she wouldn’t give to march in there and evict the entire lot at pistol point.

Apparently all that business in the carriage this afternoon was nothing more than self-pity. And to think she’d begun to feel sympathy for him. Well, the sooner that debauched devil of a man recovered from his injuries, the better.

But not too soon. She needed all the money she could get from him.

A volley of laughter battered the wall.

She narrowed her eyes at the bookcase. Perhaps she would go over there. Make a big fuss about his health—more of a fuss than was strictly necessary—and if nothing else, give herself the satisfaction of interfering with his pleasure-seeking.

She grabbed her medical bag and went to her door, only to hear a knock. She opened it to find Sacks—

“His Grace is asking for you, Mr. Germain.”

—summoning her.

“Now? Surely he can’t be asking for medical attention.”

Sacks grinned. “I believe it’s more of an invitation, you fortunate cur.”

“An invitation.” That was a different situation entirely.

“Play your cards right, and you’ll be readying for bed with company.”

An invitation. She forced her lips into what she hoped was dry recognition of the possibilities. “You have a point.”

“That’s the spirit.” Sacks laughed. “You’ll learn the way of things ’round here.”

Oh, the way of things around here was already perfectly clear. And suddenly she was angry—furious that he could pretend such distress and then, a few short hours later, act as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Invitation or no, she kept a firm grip on her medical bag and walked down the corridor and into the duke’s apartment.

And there he was, on a sofa in his dressing room with a courtesan on either side of him, the afternoon’s burial apparently forgotten.

“Ah, here is my new medic now,” he announced when he saw her. The quality of his voice told her he was feeling his liquor—and the tilt of his smile told her he wasn’t thinking of any widow and children now. The woman to his right wore an elaborate blue gown cut so that it concealed...very little. The duke had his arm around her, laughing, drinking deeply from a glass in his other hand.

Almost immediately a young Parisienne appeared at Millie’s side. “Bonsoir,” she said, taking Millie’s arm with one hand and resting her other palm flat against Millie’s chest, smoothing it a little across Millie’s lapel—dangerously close to a place Millie did not want her to touch for any number of reasons, the least of which being that the binding around her breasts was not completely effective, and she relied on the drape of her clothing to conceal what the binding could not.

Thank God her own breasts were not as generous as this woman’s, or all would be revealed regardless of disguise.

“Bonsoir,” Millie murmured, removing the woman’s hand, too aware that she had the duke’s full attention.

“Bring Mr. Germain a drink,” the duke said, drawing lazy circles near the top of his companion’s breasts.

The tormented man in the carriage was gone.

“No, thank you,” Millie said firmly, approaching the sofa where he sat, lowering her voice. “I’ve only come to remind Your Grace that all this activity may not be wise.”

“When did wisdom ever lead to entertainment?” And he might be laughing, but now she saw that his mouth was a bit strained and the laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Lack of wisdom could easily lead to a sudden decline,” she countered, and a servant placed a glass into her free hand while she spoke.

“Perhaps you’d care to join a game,” he suggested.

“A medic and a gamer, eh?” an Englishman called over from one of several gaming tables. “Do, do! We’ve just finished and are about to begin another.”

Across the room next to the duke’s curio cabinet, a gentleman was tying a blindfold around a laughing woman wearing only her stays and petticoats.

Hmm. Perhaps joining a game could be advantageous—both for her purse and her desire to be rid of these revelers.

“I do believe I shall,” she said, and Lord Winston grinned.

“Have a care with my medic, Perry,” he called over to the card table. “I’ll not have him taken advantage of.”

Millie glanced at him as she seated herself at the card table and realized he found this entire thing amusing.

Her new female companion perched on the edge of Millie’s chair, leaning so close that her bosom practically spilled into Millie’s face.

One of the men at the table laughed, and too late Millie realized she had leaned away.

“Say, Winston—I daresay your medic here is only too ripe for an education, both at cards and at women.” And then, to Millie, “But never fear, young lad. Mademoiselle Hélène will give you any experience you like.”

Now Millie’s face was inches from the woman’s bosom, and she was staring directly into a deep cleavage that would have had a real man salivating like a hungry dog.

She moistened her lips and hoped it made her appear at least a little bit tempted.

“I’m feeling a bit...warm,” the woman whispered suggestively in French. “Perhaps you can help me, monsieur le médecin.”

Little did she know. “Perhaps I can at that,” she murmured, hoping she sounded genuinely interested. “Only let me collect some winnings first, hmm?”

“Oh, ho!” the man named Perry laughed. “Our young medic is more confident than he first appeared!”

The men at the table laughed, clearly believing they would fleece her of every last penny in short order.

They began the game, and Millie made a few mistakes on purpose, throwing the first round. And then, slowly, she began to change her tactics.

“Tiens, Monsieur Germain,” one of the men said after a few rounds, by which time Millie had collected a sum about equal to that of everyone else at the table, “Perhaps I only imagine it, but Winston appears a trifle piqued.”

Now the one named Perry glanced at the duke, who was engrossed in conversation while a woman nuzzled his neck. “Not as well as he’d like us all to believe, eh?”

“On the contrary,” Millie said. “His injuries are progressing nicely.”

And now, like a golden egg dropped in her lap, was the opportunity she’d been looking for.

“Wears on a man, that sort of thing,” Perry said, shaking his head. “So difficult to imagine— Ho, Blanchet! Almost had her that time!”

Millie glanced over her shoulder and saw the object of Lord Perry’s amusement—a man playing a game of undress-me-if-you-can with one of Winston’s strumpets. “Exhausting,” Perry said now, shaking his head, and she realized he was once again speaking of Winston.

“Mmm,” she agreed, and played a card. “Especially with the— Well, he wouldn’t want me to speak of that.” She rearranged her hand and looked up to find Perry’s attention torn between his own cards and her little “slip.”

“Has he got something more than the injuries?”

“Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. His Grace’s conditions are a confidential matter between him and me. You understand, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Le pauvre,” the woman perched on the edge of Millie’s chair said, looking at the duke. Poor thing? Hardly. “I think I shall go comfort him.” How she would find room on the already crowded sofa was a mystery.

“That might not be...” Millie paused and shook her head. “No, I doubt he’s contagious.”

“Contagieux,” one of the others said sharply under his breath. “How could it be that a few cuts and bruises are contagious?”

“Do forgive me,” Millie said. “I should not have said anything. Please—let us not speak of it further.”

As if divinely preplanned, the duke sipped his drink and coughed—twice, three times—and all eyes at the table shot in his direction.

Millie frowned thoughtfully at the Frenchman seated to her left. “I do believe it’s your turn?”

His eyes dropped to his hand. “Oui. Bien sûr.” He played a card.

Millie lowered her voice and murmured to the woman sitting beside her, “I suppose I would be wrong not to ask...none of you young women have been...” She trailed off again, shook her head once more. “Ah, well. In any case, what’s done is done.”

Worry tugged at the woman’s carefully groomed brows. “Quoi?” she whispered urgently. “Dites-moi.”

“I’m quite sure, as long as you don’t plan on any further intimacies with him...”

“Mais, non,” the woman assured her, eyes fixed on the duke. “Definitely not.”

“I’m almost certain you needn’t worry,” Millie reassured her.

“I do believe,” one of the players said to the others at the table, clearing his throat, “that the Comte d’Anterry had an entertainment planned for this evening.”

Just then another of the duke’s friends approached the table and leaned close to Perry. “You look disturbed. Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“It’s probably nothing.” Lord Perry looked to Millie for confirmation. Mille only raised a brow.

The player to her left leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “We have just learned from Monsieur Germain that Winston is contagieux.”

“Dieu.” The man straightened sharply. Glanced over his shoulder.

“It’s likely nothing,” Millie told them. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. His Grace would be furious with me. Please—you mustn’t say a word.”

“Mais, non,” the new man said, still looking surreptitiously at Winston. “Of course not.”

One of the men at the table set down his cards and cleared his throat. “I do believe I never made proper excuses to d’Anterry. I’d best put in an appearance.”

She watched the man walk over and make his excuses to the duke—from a safe distance, of course—and exit the chamber with two of the courtesans at his side.

Within fifteen minutes, fully half the room had emptied.

Within twenty-five, the room was unoccupied except for herself and the duke. He still sat on the sofa where he’d been since she arrived. She still sat at the card table, alone now with another—albeit much smaller—stack of winnings.

“Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me,” Winston drawled, “what you’ve said to all my guests that has left me once again without company.”

“I assure you, I am just as disappointed in the company’s departure as you are. Just when I was holding out hope that the lovely Mademoiselle Hélène might be agreeable to a few moments of diversion.”

“Were you?”

“Only with Your Grace’s blessing, naturally.”

“Naturally. Perhaps we could call her back. You could tell her you were mistaken about whatever you told them and have your entertainment, after all.” He pinned her with that dark devil-gaze. “I hate to see you disappointed.”

After what she’d just witnessed, she refused to be intimidated. “You are too kind. Unfortunately, my duties as your employed medic must come before my own pleasure. If I’m to ensure that Your Grace is in a proper condition to endure the strain of a journey to Greece, then moderation is in order.”

“Did you tell them I had some kind of disease?”

“Good heavens, you don’t have any disease.”

“A mysterious fever?”

“You’re not feverish, Your Grace.”

“I’m well aware of that,” he bit out. “A pox? Is that what you told them?”

She swept the coins from the table into her hand, then dumped them into her coat pocket. “Your Grace has already assured me no such condition is currently present.”

“No such condition has ever been present, Mr. Germain.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t say anything about a pox. Or a rash.”

“You told them I have a rash?”

“I said I didn’t tell them that.”

“I don’t have a rash!” he exploded, just as Harris came through the door. Harris paused, hesitating.

“Mademoiselle Hélène is inquiring after her wrap,” he said.

Millie spotted it on a chair in the corner and took it to Harris. “Please give Mademoiselle Hélène His Grace’s assurances that her wrap has not been contaminated with any rash.”

“Assure the woman of nothing except my continuing regard,” the duke bit out sharply.

“Naturally, Your Grace.” Harris bowed and left with the wrap.

* * *

HE OUGHT TO dismiss her.

Winston stared at Miles Germain across his now-silent dressing room and contemplated his options—which, of course, were many.

“Let us have one thing very clear between us, Mr. Germain,” he said now, not getting up from the sofa, but only because he didn’t want to. Not because his leg hurt like the devil and the beginnings of a headache throbbed behind his eyes. “You are here to administer medical care, by which I mean compresses and bandages and the like.”

“Which will do little good if you do not follow my advice.”

“If I want medical advice, Mr. Germain, I will ask for it.”

And there was that line above her lip.

Devil take it. He’d been doing perfectly well ten minutes ago. But now that everyone was gone, the day’s events—his entire life’s events—were returning to torment him with a vengeance.

Attending that burial was a mistake. Ordering her to accompany him doubly so.

“If I want to entertain guests, then I shall. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“Without interference of any kind.”

“As you wish.”

“And that, Mr. Germain, is something you’d best remember. As I wish. Not as you wish.” Yet even now he doubted her capacity to comprehend that basic reality.

The question now was how best to undo the damage she’d done. By now the news of his rash—or whatever the bloody hell she’d told them—would have made its way to half the salons in Paris.

He should dismiss her. And if her ministrations weren’t having an effect already, despite his disregarding her advice, he would dismiss her. But even a man as stubborn and reckless as he could tell that the switch from turpentine to whatever she was mixing was helping.

He would have to hire a reputable physician to give him a clean report and then not so discreetly let it be known that the young Mr. Germain’s assessment had been mistaken.

He rubbed his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Perhaps you ought to return to your bed,” she said now. And then, quickly—sarcastically?— “Forgive me. You’ll need to define ‘advice’ so that I understand very clearly what recommendations I am allowed and which I am not.”

“Any recommendations pertaining to my choice of entertainment,” he ground out, “are strictly forbidden.”

“Then advice to take to your bed, depending on the circumstances, may or may not...” She trailed off, furrowing her brows even as a spark of triumph in her eyes made it clear she was toying with him. Still. Now.

Standing there in her bagwig and breeches, she probably fancied herself immune to seduction.

If he were willing to show her his hand and reveal that he had seen through her disguise, it would take all of five minutes to prove to her she was mistaken. And then they would see about that advice to take to his bed.

If he were willing to seduce a virgin. Which he was not.

The reason why not snuck in like a cold draft on a winter day, carrying his vow with it, and now he pushed himself off the sofa, keeping a hand on its back for balance against a sudden light-headedness.

“There’s been a change of plans,” he told her now, hearing himself as if listening to someone else.

Consider your ways, Winston. It was the only thing Edward had ever asked in the face of Winston’s sin against him so many years ago.

“We shan’t be traveling to Greece, but to my estate.”

“Your estate.” Her words shot across the room.

It was a ridiculous notion that wouldn’t change anything. The past was as immutable as the names on the headstones in that cemetery this morning. His sin against Edward—against Cara—could never be repaired.

Denying himself would not change that.

Keeping that ridiculous vow would not change it, either. And yet...

“Yes.”

“But the understanding was we would be traveling to Greece,” she said sharply.

Her eyes shot daggers at him. And...fear? “Indeed, it was. But circumstances compel me to return to my estate instead. I will still require your services for the journey.”

“But I can’t go to England.”

“No?” he asked irritably. “Are you in exile?”

She inhaled visibly. “What I meant to say was that I did not expect to go to England and I do not wish to go to England.”

“Much, perhaps, as I did not expect or wish for my medic to drive away my acquaintances by implying I am a threat to their health.”

She took a few anxious steps forward. “I shall tell them all I was mistaken. That I lied, even.”

Her sudden turn toward desperation was fascinating. “I haven’t changed my plans because of that, Mr. Germain.”

“Then why?”

Why, indeed. In those moments on the street, when a piece of that building could have fallen and smashed his own skull, he hadn’t actually made a promise to Edward. Hadn’t made a promise to anyone. They were just words, uttered in a moment of terror.

By God, I’ll do it!

It was more an oath than a promise, anyway. But he’d made a decision about Greece, and he would probably regret it, but it bloody well wasn’t Miles Germain’s place to question him. By withdrawing to his estate, removing himself from temptation, perhaps he would miraculously become the man Edward wanted him to be.

“Was there a reason you had hoped to go to Greece?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she said quickly. It was obviously a lie. He watched her thinking, contemplating the change of events, weighing her options—which, if he didn’t miss his guess, were few.

He already knew she was hungry for the wages from his employment. But her counting on Greece, as well...

Mattered not one whit to him.

“The journey to Greece would have been much longer than a simple jaunt to England,” she pointed out now. “The change will have an effect on my wages.”

“You needn’t fear for your wages,” he told her. “I intend to keep you in my employ at my estate until I make a full recovery, at which time you will be free to travel anywhere you like.”

And by which time he would doubtless have proved once and for all his own folly and the imprudence of reading too much into a single, random incident.