Читать книгу The Rake And The Heiress - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 7

The doctor closed the bedchamber door gently behind him and turned to the young woman waiting anxiously in the hallway. He noted with sadness that she was showing clear signs of strain following the trauma of the past few days. Her delicate beauty, while still intact, seemed fragile, as if frayed. The sparkle had gone from her cornflower-blue eyes, her creamy complexion was dull and ghostly pale, her blonde hair unkempt, confined carelessly under a bandeau. Despite his stern countenance and insistence on the timely settlement of bills, the doctor was a compassionate man at heart. He sighed deeply. At times like this he cursed his vocation.

The grave expression and resigned shake of his head told Serena all she needed to know. She fought to quell the tidal wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm her.

‘You must keep him comfortable, Mademoiselle Cachet, that is all you can do for him now. I will return in the morning, but…’ The doctor’s shrug was all too eloquent. It was obvious he didn’t expect Papa to survive the night.

Valiantly suppressing a sob—for what purpose would tears serve now?—Serena wearily forced herself upright from the support of the door frame she’d been leaning against. She tried to absorb the doctor’s instructions, but his clear, calm words barely penetrated the fog enveloping her shocked mind. His voice seemed faint, as if it were coming from a far distant shore. Clean dressings and sleeping draughts would ease Papa’s suffering, but not even a magic potion could save him now.

The doctor departed with an admonition to send for him if necessary, giving Serena a final comforting pat on the shoulder. As he opened the strong oak door at the foot of the stairwell which separated their living quarters from the gaming rooms, a sharp burst of drunken laughter pierced the air. With a steady supply of men returning from Waterloo the tables were always busy, but for once Serena cared naught. What use was a full purse without Papa to share its bounty?

Nothing mattered now save making the most of these last precious hours. Papa must see his daughter calm and loving, not tearful and dishevelled. Resolutely tucking a stray golden curl back under her bandeau, carefully straightening the neckline of her dress and taking a deep calming breath, Serena reentered her father’s bedchamber with a heavy heart.

Velvet hangings pulled shut over the leaded windows contained the stifling heat of the room and muffled all noise from the busy street below. A huge mirror above the marble fireplace reflected the rich rugs, the polished wood, the bright gilt and glowing silver fittings of the opulent furnishings. Reflected too, the snowy white pile of linen torn for bandages and the collection of vials and bottles atop the bedside table on which a decanter usually sat. On the floor a mound of bloodied dressings paid testament to Serena’s hours of tender nursing. The scent of lavender water and laudanum lay heavy in the air.

Philip Cachet lay on a large tester bed, dwarfed by the mountains of pillows that had been arranged around his tall frame in an attempt to ease the flow of blood from his wound. Why had he not simply handed over his purse? For the hundredth time since Papa had staggered through the door clutching his chest, Serena cursed the cowardly footpad who had taken his valuables and now, it seemed, his life too. She was shocked to see how diminished her father looked, his shaven head bare and vulnerable without the wig he still insisted on wearing, despite it being out of fashion. His breath came in irregular, rasping sighs, and in the short time it had taken to confer with the doctor, his skin had assumed a waxen pallor.

Papa had been warned not to move lest the bleeding start again, but his eyes, the same vivid blue as her own, brightened when he saw her. As she closed the door softly, he raised his hand just a little from the silk counterpane in a frail gesture of welcome.

‘Ma belle, at last. I have something of great import to tell you, and it can wait no longer—I fear my time is almost come.’ Ignoring her protestations, he gestured for Serena to come closer. ‘No point in denial, chérie, I’ve lost too much blood. I need you to pay attention—you must listen.’ A cough racked him. A small droplet of blood appeared at the side of his mouth. He wiped it away impatiently with a trembling hand.

Even now, Serena could see faint traces of the handsome man her father had been in his prime. The strong, regular features, the familiar charming smile that had extricated him from many a tricky situation. He was a gambler, and good enough to win—for the most part. For nigh on thirty years, Philip had supported first himself, then she and Maman too, by his sharp wits and his skill with the cards. Skills he had practised in countless gaming houses, in countless towns and cities across Europe.

Pulling a chair closer to the bedside, Serena sat down with a rustle of her silk skirts, gently stroking the delicate white hand lying unresponsive on the counterpane. His life was draining away in front of her eyes, yet she had to be strong. ‘I’m here, Papa,’ she whispered.

‘Mignonne, I never meant to leave you like this. Your life was to have been very different. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. We’ve had our share of fun, haven’t we?’ She smiled lovingly at him, the spark of humour in her eyes drawing the shadow of a response from his.

‘Yes, but as you know only too well, at the end of any game there is always a reckoning.’

Serena muffled a sob with her handkerchief.

His fingers trembled in her hand. ‘Ma fille, you must be brave. Listen now, and don’t interrupt, it’s vitally important. Please don’t judge me too harshly, for what I am about to tell you will shock you. It will also change your life for ever. Écoute, petite, I must go back to the beginning, thirty years ago…’