Her Husband's Harlot (22 page)

Dr.
Farraday stopped smiling. "Lady Harteford, I am an experienced physician.
I have seen hundreds of such cases and far worse, I might add."

"In
your
experience
then, Dr. Farraday," Helena said, "is there
not some intervention for a patient who at this very moment professes to be in
agonizing pain?"

"Yer
a 'eartless bastard, Farraday," Nicholas agreed and yawned hugely.

"Furthermore,"
Helena continued, crossing her arms, "what is your advice on monitoring
the state of my husband's injury? What are the signs of infection that I should
be aware of? How oft need his dressing be changed? What is the expected healing
time for such a wound?"

Dr.
Farraday turned a dull shade of red.

Ambrose
Kent spoke up. "Lady Harteford," he said in the placating tones that
one might use with a high-strung horse or a slow-witted child, "I
understand your concern. But, you see, Farraday here is one of the finest physicians
in London. He has attended countless such injuries before—"

Helena
cut him off with a hand. "Yes, speaking of injuries, I confess I am most
curious as to how my husband sustained his. How is it, Mr. Kent, that the
Marquess of Harteford came to arrive home with a bullet wound to the head?"

Mr. Kent shoved his hands in his pockets. He exchanged looks with Dr. Farraday, who shrugged as
if to say,
You're on your own with that one, lad
.

"It
was but a small matter, my lady," Mr. Kent began.

"A
small
matter?" Helena's hands braced her hips. "You return my
husband to me, bloody and bandaged, and you call that a
small
matter?"

For a
moment, Kent looked almost shamefaced. Then he jerked his head toward the
couch.

"It
was his lordship's own idea," he muttered. "I told him St. Giles was
no place—"

Helena
whitened at the mention of the notorious slum. "You took Harteford to
St.
Giles
? No one in their right mind ventures forth there! Why, it is said
that there are gin houses on every block and places called rookeries where
crime flourishes among men, women, even children ..."

"You
are remarkably well informed, my lady," Kent said, a touch of admiration
in his voice. "The literary society again, I presume?"

"What
in
heaven's name
were you doing there with my husband?"

Kent
shrank back a little at the fierce look in Helena's eyes.

"We
were following a man suspected to be involved in the warehouse theft." Kent spoke with his shoulders hunched. "I told your husband to stay in position while
I checked in with my men. But he must have seen the villain and took off after
him like some bloody hero. He was lucky I had one of my men posted farther up
along the street. He followed your husband and the suspect for most of the way
and intervened when he saw Lord Harteford getting ... injured."

"Obviously,
the timing of your man's intervention leaves something to be desired,"
Helena snapped.

"Caster
is one of my best men," Kent said stiffly. "He did all he could. If
it hadn't been for him, Harteford might have sustained a more serious injury."

"I
must be sure to convey my gratitude, then."

"It
was his lordship's own idea to follow the suspect," Kent grumbled. "I
told him to stay put. For God's sake, back me on this, Harteford—"

 A
soft snoring emerged from the couch. Nicholas had fallen asleep sitting up.

For a
moment, Helena observed her sleeping lord. Then she sighed. If he was to be
passed out drunk as a wheelbarrow, he might as well do so comfortably. She bent
over and lifted her husband's legs one by one onto the seat cushions. Her
breath puffed with the effort it required to move his muscular limbs. Once
Nicholas was sprawled fully on the couch, she arranged a tasseled cushion under
his head. He continued to snore blissfully, undisturbed even as she began to
pull off his left boot.

A
dangerous-looking blade tumbled out.

She
turned accusing eyes at Mr. Kent. The police man kept his gaze glued to a landscape
on the wall, his concentration worthy of an art critic at the Royal Academy. With
an unladylike snort, Helena finished tending to Nicholas, tucking his discarded
jacket securely around him and brushing her fingers over his bristly jaw. In
his sleep, his mouth hung open a little, like a child's after a particularly
exhausting afternoon of play.

Only Nicholas
had not been playing—he had been busy getting shot at. Why had he acted so
recklessly? Why, she thought with helpless frustration, did she understand so
little about this husband of hers?

Straightening,
she faced the other two men in the room. Both looked like they wished to be
elsewhere. Dr. Farraday, she noticed, had inched closer toward the door.

"Perhaps
we should take our leave," Mr. Kent said in a low, hopeful voice. "It
has been a long night, and we would not want to intrude upon your hospitality."

"Allow
me to offer some refreshment," Helena said evenly, "and afterward you
will tell me everything. And I do mean
everything
."

Nicholas
opened his eyes.

For a
blessed moment, he thought it all a dream. He was in his bedchamber, lying in
his own bed. He had no idea what time of day it was. When he tried to sit up,
sudden bright pain lanced through his head. He fell back on the pillow and had
to wait to regain his breath. Grimacing, he brought his hand to his temple and
encountered a swaddled barrier. Not a dream, then. He shut his eyes as it came
back to him, all of it.

The
night in the rookery, the specters of the past rising all around him. The
sickening, humiliating fear that would never leave him—that wrenched his gut even
now as he realized the consequences of his selfishness. It was his fault that
Helena was now in jeopardy; by marrying her, he'd all but thrust her in harm's
way. For the villain, whoever he was, knew about her. Had threatened to harm
her if Nicholas refused to obey whatever nefarious demands were sure to follow.

Bile
rose in Nicholas' throat. Moaning, he tried to turn onto his side, to reach the
edge of the bed in time. Miracle of miracles, a chamber pot stood there
waiting. His insides emptied in sour wave. The door opened. He looked up with
bleary, stinging eyes to see Helena rushing toward him.

"Nicholas.
Oh, my poor darling. Here, let me help you."

For
an instant, he fancied he'd died, for she appeared as heavenly as any angel.
His own guardian angel, with hair as bright as a halo and eyes so loving that
they momentarily stopped his mortal breath. Her soft hands brushed his
forehead, guided his head back to the pillow. As she hovered over him, he
allowed her grace to distract him from the horror of the night, like an oasis
in a world of endless desolation. But even as he drank in her beauty, shame
began to crawl over his skin.

He
could smell his own stench. He could imagine how he looked, bandaged and bloodied.
And the danger he had placed her in ...

Wrinkling
her nose, his wife picked up the chamber pot. "Let me dispose of this, and
I shall be right back. Do try not to move too much—your wound is not healed, my
love."

His
throat clenched at the endearment. Paralyzed with misery, he could only stare
after her shapely, robe-clad form as she left with the offending object. She
returned minutes later, with two maids in tow. They deposited a steaming basin
and a tray by the bedside. The homey smell of beef tea wafted to his nostrils.

"Thank
you, Bessie, Mary," Helena said. "That will be all."

Behind
her, the maids peered at him wide-eyed, before scampering off.

Helena
dipped the towel into the water, wringing it out before leaning over him. "We'll
clean you up a bit first, I think."

He
caught her wrist. His voice emerged as a croak. "I can do it myself."

"Nonsense,"
she chided. "You can barely sit up."

To
his surprise, he found she was right: he could not get up without her
assistance. So he had to allow her to prop him up on feather pillows, humiliation
and desire twisting his insides as he submitted to her gentle ministrations. She
wiped his face and neck, behind his ears. The warm, clean linen felt blessedly
good against his clammy skin.

"Now,
that is better, isn't it?" Turning, she arranged something, and then the
mattress dipped as she perched on the edge of the bed, glass and spoon in hand.
"Do you think you can take some of this? They're ice chips—Dr. Farraday
said it might be better for keeping the liquid down."

Come
to think of it, his throat did feel like fire. He gave a reluctant nod.

She
carefully scooped up the ice and fed him a spoonful. The cold liquid pooled in
his mouth, and he swallowed, wincing at the initial pleasure-pain of water
trickling down his parched insides.

"More?"

"Yes,"
he said, and she continued to feed him spoonful by spoonful. Perhaps as a
mother might a babe, although he could not claim that knowledge for himself. He
was certain his own mother, what little memory he had of her, had never
bothered. He did not blame her; maternal instincts were a luxury a whore could
ill afford.

He
allowed himself to bask in his wife's tender attention even as he despised his
own weakness. After last night, there was no question of being with Helena.
That he had not been killed last evening was a miracle, but he knew the clock
of justice was ticking. With each silent, inexorable beat he felt the urgency
of borrowed time. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

A
life for a life.

As it
was, his life had already been extended by sixteen years. But fate was coming
for him now. He could feel the hounds of hell breathing at his neck.

But
he could not—
would
not—allow his presence to put Helena in danger.

"I
suppose you are wondering how you got up to bed," his wife said as she
gave him the last of the ice. "Or do you recall the events that transpired
after your return home last night?"

His
memories of the night were of demons, of darkness and filth permeating his very
soul. "No," he said tautly, "my memory fades after Farraday
practicing his particular form of torture."

Helena
frowned. "Dr. Farraday put half a dozen stitches along your left temple.
We are to leave the bandage in place for several days to keep the wound clean,
but he assured me you will heal nicely. Although I am not at all sure I trust
Dr. Farraday—he seemed overly cavalier about the whole business. I told him so
last night, as a matter of fact."

Despite
his bleak mood, Nicholas's lips twitched. He'd wager all the horses in his
stable Farraday had bristled at having his authority questioned. "Farraday
served in the 33rd Regiment. He was at Quatre Bras and Waterloo and tended to
the great Wellington himself."

"Well,
I hope he knows what he is doing where you are concerned," Helena said
primly. She stood and fussed with the coverlet, not looking at him. "I had
two of the footmen carry you upstairs after the doctor and Mr. Kent left. I
thought you would be more comfortable."

"That
was kind of you." He did not know what else to say. That he did not
deserve such tender consideration from her? That her wifely care was wasted on
a marriage not destined to be? That the best thing for her would be for him to
leave and never come back? "I am sorry for the inconvenience I have
caused."

"Inconvenience?"
Helena's head snapped up. His chest squeezed at the heightened brightness of
her eyes. "You could have died last night, and you apologize for the
inconvenience
?"

Grimly,
Nicholas met her wounded, bewildered gaze. "What else do you wish me to
say?"

What
was there
to
say, after all? She would not understand, because he could
not explain his past to her. It suddenly occurred to him that it would be
easier this way, letting her hurt and anger build a wall of separation. Lord
knew his own self-control had proved perilously thin where she was concerned.
It would be for her own good to stay far away from him—even if it took her hate
to accomplish it.

He
could live with that, at least temporarily, until he could figure out a more
permanent solution for keeping her safe. His mind raced. An annulment would
have to be procured; as soon as he could get himself out of bed, he'd light the
fire beneath his solicitor's arse to make it happen. To remove himself from her
well-ordered existence was the only fool-proof solution.

But
he needed time to make that happen.

Fueling
her hatred would buy him that time.

"I
wish," Helena said, her voice quivering, "to know what you were doing
in the dashed slums in the first place. I wish to know why you never tell me,
your own wife,
anything
. Oh, Nicholas, why must you strive to keep the
doors closed between us?"

Because
the closer you get, the more I endanger you . Because I won't be the cause of
you coming to harm. Because I'd die before I let anything happen to you.