Читать книгу Danger Wears White - Lynne Connolly - Страница 8

He rode unerringly to the hut where she’d found Tony yesterday and dismounted with ease, tossing the horse’s reins over the outstretched branch of a nearby tree. She left her mare by the fence and trudged across the field in boots definitely meant for riding and not walking. “I know this place, sir,” she said when she reached him. “There’s nothing to see here but ruin. I may have it rebuilt, because we use this field for summer pasture.”

When he showed every indication of going inside, she tried one final time. “It’s probably dangerous in there.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He ventured inside, stepping cautiously.

Damn. Her throat tightened. Would he say something? She had no choice but to follow him inside.

She had to wait for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Nothing. Nothing that shouldn’t be there. Fresh straw was strewn on the floor. She breathed out slowly, releasing her sigh of relief.

Lord Dankworth kicked the straw, gaining nothing but a few wisps that stuck to his shiny boot. Served him right.

One of the Georges must have been here. Thank God for that. They’d cleaned up the blood and taken the rags away. There really was nothing to see.

Had this man suspected something? But he turned to her, his smile as charming as ever and his eyes warm, for a change. “We should not linger. You’re right, this place is dangerous. Whatever you plan to do next, I’d have it demolished.”

“You’re right, sir.” She felt like adding something sarcastic along the lines of informing him that she didn’t know how she’d have managed without him. But she forbore. He might take it seriously.

He followed her to her horse and kindly threw her up into the saddle so she didn’t have to lead the mare over to the tree stump. He mounted with an ease that spoke of hours spent riding. But a mite showy for her taste, even though he didn’t appear to think about it. Like his riding habit. Perfectly fashionable, slightly flamboyant, but it made her uncomfortable, as if she weren’t good enough in some way.

Imogen didn’t like feeling like that in her own place, but she did him the courtesy of believing he might not mean it. It was probably his way, but if she threw in her lot with him, he would be forever challenging her to match him.

She caught herself short. What was she thinking? This man had gently hinted, that was all. Probably had no intention of putting himself in the picture, but giving her some guidance. After all, he’d been on the town all his life.

Why had her mind turned to something she’d determinedly put out of it? Nothing had changed, except two handsome men had come into her life. Temporarily. Nothing else. In a few days, they’d move on, both of them, and she’d settle back into her everyday life. Maybe she should practice on him. Or maybe she should continue as she was and not try to add any airs and graces to something she was not.

They turned back to the house, but she had no chance to visit either of the Georges, who were outside servants, before it was time to change for dinner.

She chose a different gown from the night before. Unusual in itself. Once she chose a dinner gown, she wore it for a week before she sent it to the laundry. But she felt she owed their guest something.

Her mother had asked the vicar tonight, alongside the squire. A perfect country gathering and a perfect bore. Just as she liked it, she assured herself. Lord Dankworth was perfectly affable, although at times he showed a little impatience with the entrenched attitudes of the guests. The squire’s daughter showed an alarming propensity to flutter her fan and giggle, something she’d never done before.

Lord Dankworth responded with cool pleasantries and once exchanged a speaking glance with Imogen that told her he preferred her company. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and forced a stiff smile to her face.

The squire showed no desire to join the ladies immediately after the meal, so she had a reason to excuse herself. Pleading a headache, she ignored her mother’s disapproving frowns and made her escape.

Hurrying upstairs, she got to her room without anyone stopping her. Laughter echoed from the dining room and up the stairs as she scurried along the corridor to her room.

She wouldn’t pause to change, but dropped her hooped petticoat, fan, shoes, and stockings in her room and went straight to the Long Gallery. She could see him and get back to the safety of her bedroom.

But she had to see him. Had one of the Georges brought the small beer she’d requested? She couldn’t provide tea or barley-water. People would ask what she wanted it for, and she could hardly tell them.

Even before she slid the panel aside she heard muttering. When she had it open and had slid through, she wasted little time replacing the piece of wood before she leaped down the short flight of steps and ran across the room to his side.

His eyes were half closed, and he’d been thrashing around, twisting the sheets into tangled knots. As she approached, he flung an arm out, barely missing her. It skimmed past her body, sending a breeze across her cheek.

Sweat bedewed his brow, and he’d torn his shirt in his efforts to remove it. Each muscle tensed when he turned. It shouldn’t be like that.

Dark blood stained the bandage that last night had been clear.

Leaning over him, she captured the arm. The knot was too tight, the flesh of his arm bulging top and bottom. The pulse in his throat throbbed, and he didn’t seem to be aware of her until she caught his wrist.

“No!”

He fought back. She was no match for him. He pushed her away.

The panel slid aside with a scrape of wood, and Imogen held her breath.

“Miss?”

She sighed in relief when she saw Young George’s anxious face. “It’s the wound. He’s taken a fever. We need to drain it. Can you get water, a knife?”

Turning, she spotted the table knife sticking out from under the pillow and seized it.

“No, miss, he’s too strong for you.” Young George scrambled down the steps and crossed to her side, taking Tony’s wrist. “Now do it.”

She sliced through the knot she’d been so proud of last night and unwrapped the bandage.

The stink filtered through the room before she got off the last part. The wound was swollen and red. Pus seeped from it. “It’s gone wrong.”

“It’s not too bad, miss. I’ve seen men recover from worse.”

“Can we manage it between us?”

Young George grunted. “I don’t know, miss. If we don’t manage it tonight, we’ll ’ave to call for help.”

He was right. “So you’ll stay with me?”

He stared, his brows raised. “Of course. Now you mop up this mess but keep out of ’is way if he moves around too much. I’ll get what we need.”

As good as his word, George was back within twenty minutes with supplies. Those twenty minutes had been the longest in Imogen’s life.

Tony turned restlessly, muttering incomprehensible half-words. Once he shouted, “Julius!” and she had to stop him before someone came.

She said his name, “Tony,” and immediately he quietened and opened his eyes, gazing at her. For a moment, he appeared perfectly lucid, cupping her cheek softly, and then he was off again.

“I know,” he said then, and panted as if he’d run for miles.

She used the old sheet to wipe some of the sweat from his chest and face, but she daren’t touch the wound. The suppurating mess had become so bad so fast that she could hardly believe it, but they didn’t clean bullets before they fired them.

When Young George returned, he carried a bucket of fresh water, clean rags for bandages, and another cask of small beer. “Best ’e drinks, miss,” he said. “’E’s sweatin’ it out too fast.” He’d also brought another tankard. “We need to keep ’im clean. Listen, miss, if I ’old him down, can you clean him up?”

She swallowed. She too had seen her share of injuries, but never had they affected her in this way. Fearing for his life, she grabbed a rag, soaked it in the water bucket, and wrung it out.

By then, Young George had Tony pinioned by the simple expedient of climbing on the bed, straddling and clamping Tony’s lower body between his thighs, and grasping Tony’s elbows. That held the wound rigid enough for Imogen to work on.

Before she joined the scramble, she paused to unhook and remove her gown, leaving her in her fancy petticoat, stays, and shift. Plenty for modesty. She’d worn as little when she’d labored in the fields when they were short of hands. She had no time for embarrassment.

If her bosom fell out of her stays completely, she wouldn’t care. She only concentrated on cleaning the wound, eliminating every trace of the evil liquid that had risen like a demon from hell to plague them

After the first few passes of her cloth, Tony tensed and arched up. He’d have cried out if Young George hadn’t had his hand clamped firmly over his mouth. She only shot a terse glance at Young George and nodded.

The flesh around the wound was reddened and risen, forcing the edges apart. A good thing in a way because they couldn’t let the wound close until all the badness had gone. Putting everything else out of her mind, Imogen swabbed, tossing the soiled rags to the floor, and scrambled back to get fresh. More seeped out, and she put her fingers either side of the hole and squeezed. Evil yellow liquid spurted out, and if she hadn’t had a cloth ready, it would have struck her. She ignored the mess, snatched another cloth, and kept going.

Without warning, Tony’s body went lax and he slumped back, unconscious. Pain or delirium had the better of him. Young George released Tony, and Imogen worked on him more efficiently, now Young George was free to pass the damp cloths and dispose of the old ones.

Tony’s chest moved up and down in a regular rhythm, and Imogen straightened up, pressed her hands to her aching back, and examined her handiwork.

Although the wound was red, it was a healthy red. She’d done it, removed all traces of corruption. She wanted to thrust her fist into the air in triumph, yell her victory. At one point, she’d feared she’d have to cut away the flesh, but the infection hadn’t taken hold that deeply. They’d got to it before it had a chance to form the red lines that signified the poison was spreading around his body. She’d cleaned and cleaned until pure blood had welled up, and then she’d concentrated on cleaning and waiting until the bleeding had lessened enough for her to bind it loosely. They weren’t out of the woods yet.

“You should get to bed, Miss Imogen. The maids’ll be up soon.”

She glanced at her servant, her friend, the man she’d grown up with. His mid-brown hair was plastered to his skull and his broad face was pale, but triumph shone in his eyes, an emotion that must be reflected in hers.

“We did it, George.”

“We did, miss. Now get going, or someone will see you. I’ll stay with him today, if you would be so kind as to tell my da’ where I am.”

“Yes, of course.” They could say Young George was ill, or busy somewhere else on the estate. That would work fine, especially since the house was busy with its exalted guest.

Damn, the guest! She’d have to rise, be pleasant, entertain him. Although none of this was his fault, she resented Lord Dankworth for being here. Without that, she could have told her mother she was needed on the estate and disappear for the day.

She ran a few plans through her head, but none of them worked. If she pleaded illness, maids would check on her through the day and she’d have no opportunity to check on Tony. She trusted her maids, but all staff gossiped, except for the Georges.

She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him there while she entertained Lord Dankworth. On her way back to her room, she considered bringing Tony out of hiding and installing him in a bedroom. But her mother would probably talk, and she didn’t know if she could trust Lord Dankworth. He was a prominent Jacobite, but that could mean anything. As many factions lay inside as out, and she didn’t know him well enough.

No, Tony was safer where he was, although if his condition worsened, Imogen wouldn’t hesitate to bring him out of hiding and call a physician.

Her mind still racing, she ripped off her clothes and threw them in the corner of the room, ready for the laundry. Her gown was reasonable, but the petticoats and stomacher were probably ruined, soiled with blood and pus as well as heavily creased. She shoved them in a corner of the clothes press. She’d have to deal with them herself if she didn’t want questions asked. Scrambling into her night rail, she made her preparations and then waited.

She must have fallen asleep, because when the knock came at the door, she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, and to her shock, it was ten in the morning. She had never lain in that long before. Startled, she jerked awake and put a hand to her tousled hair.

A maid put her head around the door. “Madam, your lady mother asks if you are ill?”

She laughed. “No, indeed. Tell her I am well, and I will be in the parlor in twenty minutes.”

Her mother must have roused early to greet their guest, because she rarely left her rooms before noon, as if she were living in the middle of fashionable London. Not that she’d ever managed to do so. They’d come straight here from Rome when Imogen was a baby. York was the farthest they’d managed, and Imogen had gone there under protest, concerned the laborers wouldn’t plant the barley straight.

The expense of the visit and the attendant costumes her mother insisted she needed still made her blench.

Finding something a little above her usual day wear proved easy because of that trip to York and the occasional ones to Lancaster. Although the petticoat to the apricot silk was somewhat creased, if she turned it around it wasn’t too bad. Her hair, brushed out and wound up into a bun, made a reasonable show, and she even found a string of amber beads to wear. She had to tack a ruffle to the edges of her shift. She didn’t usually bother with lace elbow ruffles but her mother would notice if she sported her usual linen ones. Good lace could cost a king’s ransom, but it was pretty.

Standing before the spotted mirror propped up by her linen chest, she made a reasonable show. Probably not enough for a London drawing room but perfectly adequate for her mama.

Instead of using the Long Gallery, she went the proper way, down the big stairs to the great hall and through the door at the end to the main rooms of the house. Big mullioned windows let the March sunlight in, and it cast the breakfast parlor—now, sadly, cleared of viands—into a bright, welcoming place. This was one of her favorite rooms in the house, together with the library.

Voices came from the half-open door of the downstairs drawing room, a grand name for a jewel of a room. The upholstered chairs and the decoration were her mother’s improvements. Modern paneling painted a pretty pale blue covering the old timbers. A harpsichord, usually a dust-gatherer, stood in one corner, but today it was being used. The painted top and sides were opened, and Amelia posed there, playing something pretty.

Lord Dankworth sat on the big sofa, holding court. The news that the son of a duke must have raced around the district faster than a carrier-pigeon could have managed, because most of their neighbors sat in Imogen’s parlor, drinking tea and consuming dainty little cakes and bread and butter.

In town, visitors usually restricted visits to half an hour. In the country not so, because people came farther. Never had Imogen longed more for the half-hour rule.

After greeting everyone, she went to sit with Amelia, to turn pages or some such excuse, but his lordship called her back.

That was the start of her ordeal. She sat next to him for most of the day, either here or walking slowly around the part of the house her mother considered presentable. She had little option for her mother blatantly pushed them together.

Nobody commented on her tardy arrival, and when she tried to excuse herself to check on various household tasks, her mother gave a tinkling laugh and declared that the servants were quite good, considering they had such a small pool of available staff to choose from.

At one point her parent suggested a stroll along the Long Gallery. “For while it cannot rival the glories of a house like Chatsworth, we are tolerably pleased with our poor effort.”

Climbing up the stairs to reach it, Imogen made as much noise as she dared, raising her voice and stamping her feet, just in case Young George was asleep or Tony was delirious again.

But all was silent, and she could explain the portraits to his lordship. “This is my Elizabethan ancestor,” she remarked, coming to stand in front of the gloomiest picture, of a man standing against a black background dressed in a dark brown suit. The only light parts of the painting were the man’s lugubrious face and his huge ruff that presented his head like a pig’s head on a plate. Why nobody had painted an apple in his mouth she’d never know, except the face was too high to easily reach. If his lordship stretched, he could manage it. He paused outside the painting, which unfortunately was situated right next to the panel that led to the secret rooms.

Imogen heated, and her breath caught in her throat. Panic invaded her stomach, tying it into knots. She had to say something, shuffle her feet, something. Oh why didn’t he walk on? This was a terrible portrait. The other guests chatted quietly. Too quietly.

“You wouldn’t know that the man in this painting created all this.” She waved around, indicating the gallery. “Of course when he built it, most of the lines were straight, but by the time he died they’d begun to warp. They used green wood.”

“It looks brown to me.” He smiled and some of the company tittered. The highly polished timber was indeed that color.

“It refers to the state of the wood. There was too much moisture in it. That meant that it dried unevenly.” Oh, stupid, she shouldn’t have explained his lordship’s sally.

He listened gravely and then smiled. And she hated him. He’d been teasing her. Of course he knew what green wood was, and he’d led her on. She’d always hated people teasing her and now she flushed to the roots of her hair. “I’m sorry.”

His smile softened and he moved closer. “Don’t be. I find you refreshingly charming. And I agree. It’s strange that the stern man of this portrait was responsible for this. Don’t you ever want to live in a house with parallel lines occasionally displayed?”

“No,” she answered distinctively, but realized he probably did, so that would be impertinent. “That is, I don’t miss it, and there are some in the newer part of the house. Parallel lines, that is.”

“Of course. Perhaps one day you’d grace my father’s house with your presence. We would be charmed to greet you.”

While Imogen took that as a general politeness, her mother exclaimed with obvious eagerness, “Indeed, we would be delighted!” thus turning a vague wish into an invitation. She didn’t want it. She wouldn’t go.

“London first,” Lord Dankworth said. “I have a longing to see you in the ballrooms of Mayfair. Do say you’ll make an appearance this season.”

She’d say anything if he would just move on. Thankfully, when she stepped forward, so did he, although his tread wasn’t as heavy as hers. Carefully she kept her head away from the panel, holding her pose stiffly so she should not be tempted. Except that she was. Beyond that piece of wood was one man who could be dying, and his attendant who was probably holding his breath while he waited for them to pass.

Just as they walked past, she heard something. A muffled thump. Had Young George dropped something?

Imogen cleared her throat and stamped, offering a weak smile to Lord Dankworth. “I should get my shoes attended to. I think they’re too big.” He probably thought she was demented because she delivered her words of wisdom far too loudly.

“Indeed, my lady. You doubtless have a dainty foot.” His smiling glance said he wanted to see it, but she saw more than amusement in his slumberous gaze. Oh hell, had he noticed? And her reaction might have made her culpable. But what would he make of such a sound? It could be a mouse, or something shifting.

“Timbers move all the time in these old buildings,” she said.

“I noticed,” he replied drily. “My sleep was punctuated by a series of cracks so sharp that at first I thought someone had opened fire on us.”

Imogen’s mother joined in the complaints. “Indeed, I have never accustomed myself to the odd noises old buildings make. My sleep is frequently disturbed by the sounds. I do not know why my late husband didn’t have the whole house demolished and a new, modern house built. I constantly requested it of him, but he took no notice.”

“I will build you one somewhere else.” Imogen swore she would if it killed her. Or she would buy one of those boxes people were so fond of these days, a square-shaped house with square-shaped rooms.

Any man she married might take it into his head to demolish this house, and with it, her heart. She loved it, couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. And when she was alone with her love, she’d be as happy as a person could be.

No more guests she couldn’t abide, only those she liked. Spinsterhood? She couldn’t wait.

Having affirmed her deepest desire, Imogen reached the end of the gallery and led them along her part of the house, the second oldest part. “The great hall was built first, of course,” she told them, into her stride now, “and then the solar above it, which is now a bedroom.” She could pass for a guide, the housekeeper who showed people around great houses for a gratuity.

Although Lord Dankworth expressed interest, his eyes glazed when she started talking about the different styles of half-timbering, and how the house could be dated by the different styles it used.

Good. Perhaps he’d go away.

Her ploy must have worked, because later, at dinner, he announced that he had to leave. “My father has sent a message, summoning my presence.” He lifted his glass of wine, his fingers perfectly displayed against the sparkling crystal. “It is a great bore, but I must obey.”

“You live at your father’s whim?” Imogen couldn’t resist asking, although relief speared through her at the knowledge.

He smiled, but it looked a bit tight at the corners of his mouth. “No, though I do respect his views. This time it appears he requires me for a favor. One should always obey one’s parents. However, if I may, I would appreciate the opportunity to write to you.” He leaned forward, although with a table of eight, everyone would be able to hear whatever he said. “I will speak to him of you. I confess, ma’am, I would greatly appreciate the chance to get to know you better. I would deem it a favor if you would consent to visit us sometime. Unfortunately, my lady mother has left this world, but I have a great many aunts anxious to act as my father’s hostess. If I give them a reason, that is.”

Damn. He was getting particular, and Imogen’s mother was perking up far too much. She would make Imogen write, by dint of long and tedious complaining. Nobody complained better than her mother. Or with greater effect. And once a correspondence began, it would be far more difficult to escape the insidious and expensive clutches of London.

“Sir, I have my duties here, but it would be delightful to write to you.” Perhaps she could space the letters out or just write terse replies. He’d probably become bored in a month. As long as a definite invitation wasn’t issued or accepted, that should work, and Imogen would only have to bear her mother’s complaints for a short while. With any luck, she’d blame Lord Dankworth for his fickleness.

The candles were guttering by the time her mother decided to leave the table. Once on the way to the drawing room, she hissed at Imogen, “Don’t you dare leave early tonight! He is particularly interested in you, and you will show him every favor.”

“Every favor?” Imogen turned a wide-eyed expression on her mother.

“Oh come, Imogen, you’re no child. You know what I mean, and if you do not, it’s time you learned.”

Could her mother mean…? No, not that. She’d try other means to drive him away.

By the second sly look over the top of her fan, he merely smiled and remarked, “My dear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to deter me. It won’t do. You’re quite lovely and your figure is exquisite. If you come to London, I want it to be with my knowledge and friendship. I saw you first. Never forget that.”

If she felt in the least attracted to him, that look of smoldering promise would have turned her to a melted puddle at his feet. But she didn’t.

Someone else had indeed got to her first.

With a shock, she realized that yes, he had. Tony was far more than a stranger she’d taken in. Rough manner and all, his genuinely friendly demeanor—when he was in his right mind—and powerful form attracted her far more than this society lord. Infinitely more. Lord William might have all the appeal of Narcissus, but she was no Echo, to follow blindly and do as she was bid.

The evening dragged on. The six fortunate enough to receive an invitation to dinner left at ten, this being a night of the full moon, so they could see their way home. They would normally have left at nine, but the vicar’s wife declared herself perfectly charmed by Imogen’s harpsichord playing. She was either deaf or lying, because Imogen played tolerably, no more, and she had difficulty keeping time, so her pieces meandered more than the composer intended.

Imogen shuddered only to receive a solicitous query about her health. Her excuse. “My lord, I am perfectly well now, but I confess to feeling tired. We keep country hours here, and I’m not used to staying up so late.”

Her mother trilled with laughter in an alarming way. From her perch next to Imogen on the large sofa, she tapped her daughter on the arm with her fan. “Really, Imogen, we are not quite the provincials his lordship will think us.”

Lord Dankworth got to his feet. “Nevertheless, ma’am, I do believe Miss Thane has the right of it.”

For once, her mother didn’t remark on the lack of title, and Imogen liked him better for using the honorific she was entitled to.

“If I may escort you as far as the hall, I’d count it a pleasure.”

She could say nothing, and truly, she didn’t want to. He chatted comfortably as they traversed the corridor and then the morning parlor, which led into the medieval Great Hall. At the door that led to her part of the house, he paused, took the candlestick form her, and placed it on a nearby table. He took both her hands and turned her toward him.

“One kiss,” he murmured in an intimate tone she would rather not hear. “That’s all I ask.”

“Sir, it’s not proper—“

“Nobody is watching us. I will be gone in the morning, far too early for you to see me off, I fear. I want to assure you that if you give me cause, I’ll stop here and my father can go to the devil.”

“Don’t you rely on him for a living?” The words were out too fast for her to stop them. If he wanted her for her fortune, even her house, she’d understand. Younger sons could have a hard time of it, even sons of dukes.

Smiling, he shook his head. “Not I. I inherited a tidy estate from my mother.” He paused. “I don’t rely on my father in any way. I do share his political leanings, and when in London I use the family home, but that is all.” He gazed into her eyes and she couldn’t look away. “I don’t expect you to agree to everything right away, but my desire to see you in London is genuine. I would love to present you to the ton, but I want to do it with you by my side. You understand me?”

She did. He wanted to marry her, or at the least, to court her. “I-I do not think we shall suit.”

“I think we will. Let me show you.” Drawing her closer, he released her hands to slide his arms around her waist, and then he kissed her.

He didn’t use his tongue, as Tony had. That utterly carnal kiss still haunted her, and through the day, she’d occasionally touched her lips in remembrance, but this was a kiss she’d find hard to remember. It was perfectly pleasant, perfectly placed, and utterly forgettable.

She endured, even let him draw her close, but when it was done she didn’t linger.

“I will return,” he said. His lips were reddened and for a change, he wasn’t smiling, only gazing at her as if she could solve some problem.

He gave her the candlestick, and with one backward glance, went back to the south side of the house.

Imogen continued north.

Once in her room she changed out of her finery and into her usual clothes, plain but serviceable. A dark green skirt and one of the white shirts she wore with her riding habits. A little jacket in gray wool in case it got colder, although the little room rarely suffered from the chill, built as it was above the kitchens and with little space to actually get cold.

The day had been interminable, unbearable, and by the end of it, she’d been at screaming point, wanting to yell for everyone to go away and never come back. Didn’t they know she had a sick man to visit?

Was he well? Better or worse? Because God help her, she’d move him into the main house if he were suffering, Lord Dankworth or no. Standing before the mirror, she stuffed her hair into a white cap that she used when undertaking dirty work, the kind dairymaids used for keeping hair out of the butter.

Finding a pair of soft shoes, she slipped them on and then bethought herself what she could find. Probably better leaving it to Young George to decide what to replenish. She would stay all night. Lord Dankworth was leaving early, and he had given her leave not to see him off, so she could stay with Tony all night.

The notion made her heart beat faster and her midsection tighten.