Her Mystery Duke (3 page)

“Oh, you are shaking.” Mrs. Mason patted her shoulders. “Now
don’t you worry. I know his type, a craven fox preying on the weak. But he’ll
think twice about harassing you, now that he knows you’ve got some friends in
this town.” Mrs. Mason pulled her away from the window.

“I am so tired. I need to go home.”

“No, you must wait. Be sure he is gone. You should finish
your pie and have some more tea.”

“Yes, of course you’re right.” Jeanne followed her back to
the table and chairs. She took some coins out of her reticule and placed them
on the table.

Mrs. Mason shook her head. “My treat today.”

“No, I insist.”

Mrs. Mason waved dismissively. “I have to attend to the
baking but you stay here and rest yourself. Ben will drive you home later. If
that coxcomb comes back, you just call for me.”

Mrs. Mason hurried away to the backroom.

Jeanne stared into the steaming cup.

Tap, tap, tap.

She looked up. Raindrops pattered the window. No, not rain.
Sleet. The drops stuck to the glass, then melted and slid down.

What if the gentleman were truly ill and delirious with
fever? Not insane at all? He had no hat. Was lost. Alone. The burn in her
throat swelled into a sob. She slapped her hand to her mouth and pressed it
back.

A touch on her shoulder brought her into the moment. “Why
don’t you just stay here tonight?”

Jeanne shook her head furiously. “No, no, I have to go.”

She tore from Mrs. Mason’s touch, arose from her seat, and
hurried to the door.

“Wait, wait. The gentleman may be waiting—”

Jeanne jerked the door open and exited the shop.

She ran faster than she ever had in her life. But she didn’t
have far to go once she’d turned the corner. The gentleman was leaning against
a wall. He looked as pensive as ever.

As she approached his expression eased and he reached a hand
out. “My darling, let’s go home.”

The wind gusted, sending ice cold straight to her bones, and
she pulled her pelisse closer to her chin. A passing coach rattled by, its
wheels sending a sluice of cloudy grayish water up in an arc which came
dangerously close to drenching them.

She forced a smile. “Yes, let’s go home.”

She’d get him into a carriage and on his way back to where
he belonged. Surely that was enough. A gentleman like him must have servants
who would watch over him. Her responsibility would be discharged.

“Where the devil is the carriage?” Deep offense resounded in
his voice, as though he’d never had to wait for a carriage before.

“Didn’t you tell your driver to wait?”

“Of course I did.” His voice rang with indignation.

“Come,” she said firmly. “Let’s go back to the mews and see
about your carriage.”

The groom at the mews nearest the coffee shop said that the
gentleman hadn’t left any carriage there.

“Where did you come from before you arrived at the coffee
shop?” she asked once they had walked out of earshot of the groom.

The gentleman just stared at her with that highbrow look and
compressed his lips. So, he didn’t know where he’d been or where he’d left his
damned carriage. She sighed. “We’ll walk a bit and a hackney will come along.”

He looked down from his lofty heights, almost sneering down
his aristocratic nose. “We’re certainly not going to take a public carriage.”

“Well, the carriage is—” She drew her brows together.
“—being repaired.”

“Being repaired?” he asked, as though such a thing were a
complete impossibility.

“Yes.”

Her heart fluttered a series of frenzied beats. Shaky,
panicked energy quivered down her legs. She drew in a deep, hitching breath.
Calm, she must remain calm. If she stayed calm, he was less likely to have any
sort of fit or rage, right? Perhaps she might play the loving mistress?
“Darling, don’t you remember?”

He stared at her then blinked several times.

“Don’t you?” She made her voice very soft.

He released her hand. “Blast it, I don’t remember.” His
expression went blank yet his eyes widened. “I don’t remember anything.” He
frowned. “Except that you were angry with me.”

“Angry about what?”

“Everything.”

There was that devastated, desolate look again. The burn
returned to her throat and she had to turn away. “It’s terribly cold. We’re
being soaked. Let us find a public conveyance and sort all of this out later,
shall we?”

He jutted his chin and his features took on an annoyed
expression. Apparently, he was not used to listening to others or taking their
advice. He blinked once or twice and then he took her hand again and strode
determinedly ahead, pulling her with him.

When they found a carriage for hire, the gentleman stared
blankly at the driver.

“Sir, where shall I take you?”

“Darling, tell the man.” Again, she tried to make her voice
soft. Loving.

He turned to her. His eyes, now glassy again, reflected
sheer fear. Her throat constricted. Again, she wondered if he were really ill
with a fever. He didn’t remember where he lived. Or he couldn’t remember how to
give directions to where he lived. Heavens, it was worse than she’d thought. Oh
Lord. She did not want to deal with any panicked hysterics or self-defensive
rages like with Papa. She swallowed hard and smiled at him in a hopefully
reassuring manner.

He jerked his gaze away.

“Give him directions, Thérèse.” The resentment in his voice
made her heart contract. She was intimately familiar with a man not wanting to
appear weak. Not wanting to need help.

Wetness pricked the corners of her eyes. Not from the rain
but from frustration.

All right, yes, mostly she cried from sympathy.

She did not want this. This couldn’t be happening. She
quickly gave the driver directions.

She’d have to take him to her garret for now. The other
women frequently entertained men in their rooms. Mrs. Pillmore required her
percentage, of course. But it wouldn’t seem amiss to anyone. Oh, just imagine
how Mr. High-And-Mighty was going to respond to being taken to her garret. But
what else was she to do with him? Good heavens, he wasn’t a stray dog.

The driver rushed to aid her into the carriage but the
gentleman pushed him away, then poked his head inside.

He began peeling off his greatcoat.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“It is appalling in there. You shall have to sit on my
coat.”

She stuck her head inside and caught the odor of mildew and
a touch of stale urine. Well, clearly not the best but she’d come across worse.
On a rainy day, this close to east London, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Please put your coat back on.

“You cannot sit on those seats.”

“You are becoming soaked through. Please, put your coat on.”

His frown deepened. “Thérèse, why are you suddenly so
disagreeable?”

“The longer we stand here, the more thoroughly soaked we get
from the sleet.”

Was that a hint of a smile on his lips? “Your new bluntness
is a refreshing.”

He reached out, as though he were about to help her into the
carriage. Then he swayed and listed backwards. His eyes rolled until only the
whites showed. He pitched forward.

A startled cry pierced the silence. Hers. She leapt forward,
hands poised to catch him. He fell upon her and his weight overwhelmed her to
the point her knees buckled.

Then his weight eased. The driver was lifting him. “Let’s
put him inside, milady.”

Milady.

She could have laughed at any other time. But the reality of
her situation came crashing upon her. She was now responsible for an
unconscious, mentally unstable gentleman. Together, they got him inside. She
settled beside him and took a deep breath.

The driver closed the door with a slam. The finality of the
sound resonated deep in her chest.

What a fine situation she’d willingly trapped herself in.

Her nostrils began to burn. The connivance didn’t smell any
nicer with the door shut. She wrinkled her nose. Thank God she didn’t live too
far away.

It began to move. To put it more bluntly, it began to rock
hard enough to rattle her teeth. His unconscious form shifted and fell against
her shoulder.

“Thérèse—” His deep voice sounded sleepy. “The channel is so
choppy this time of year. You mustn’t be afraid. Think about Paris. We shall
have a grand time in Paris.”

He locked an arm around her waist and drew her near.
Sheltering her from the jarring motion with his body.

His very solid body.

The hackney rattled along and another strong jolt hit. She
found her face pressed ruthlessly against his chest. The scent of his shaving
soap was certainly better than the odors in the carriage.

He pressed the curve of her waist then slid down to the
swell of her hip. “You have gained some weight.”

Heat suffused her face. Of course, his Thérèse must be a
slip of a thing. No one could ever accuse Jeanne of being slender.

“You never ran from me before.”

“No?”

“No.” He found her hand. “Can you forgive me? Will you come
home and stay?” He didn’t plead. But there was a sincere, earnest, urgency
underneath his calm tone that made her believe his sincerity. His remorse. It
held her spellbound, unable to resist as he lifted her hand to his cheek. The
stubble there was a faint rasp against her fingers.

 
His skin burnt her
like live coals. She gasped then jerked her hand out of his hold. She tore her
glove off and put a hand to his forehead. Moist, blistering heat.

Thurmp, Thurmp.
Thurmp.

Her heart pounded her ears with sudden, jarring violence.
Her mouth went dry. God above. She’d been so focused on her dread of insanity,
it had clouded her perception. Clearly, the man was dreadfully ill and
delirious with fever.

Totally her responsibility.

She swallowed hard and in the semidarkness they rode in
silence for long moments. Silence but for the subtle wheezing issuing from his
open mouth as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Chapter Two

The driver had helped her to carry the gentleman up the
stairs to her rented garret chamber. Now she stared at the gentleman lying on
her bed. The heavy shadow of coal-black stubble dotting his cheeks stood in
stark contrast to a complexion that was so ashen it made her pillowcase look
dingy.

The realization that he’d been truly ill left her shaken.
How could she have been so mistaken? She was so good at spotting an unbalanced
person. How could she have missed how utterly ill he appeared? The answer was
obvious. He was growing sicker by the moment.

A quick search of his pockets had yielded nothing but
several pound notes and a handkerchief stained with yellowish spots and
monogrammed with a very grand-looking
H
.
Nothing to indicate who he was or where he belonged.

Clammy nausea clutched at her insides and she fisted her
hands.

Should she call for a doctor? To what end? The doctor would leach
and bleed and purge the gentleman. She’d never seen that do any person any
good. Not Mama when she was dying of consumption. Not Papa in the desperate
grips of madness. No, in both cases the doctors’ ministrations had seemed to
hasten death.

But what if this gentleman died in her room, alone with her?
Anyone would ask what he was even doing here in the first place. They would
accuse of her of being a pickpocket who had lured him in, then allowed him to
die so she could take his money. Even if she escaped suspicion of being a
thief, the inquiry would surely make her look like a harlot. Mr. Ratherford
wouldn’t like that. She could lose her chance to be published.

Her nails cut into her palms.
Think about what you’re doing.

She had no way of knowing just how ill the gentleman was or
how ill he would become. His condition seemed to be rapidly disintegrating and
aggressive treatment could leave him weakened to the point he might die.

You don’t owe this
stranger anything. You especially don’t owe him this kind of risk.

A groan sounded, long and deep. The sound jerked her out of
her thoughts. She refocused on the gentleman lying on her bed. From his open
mouth, wheezing sounds issued forth to fill the small space.

She threw one hand to her throat and pressed, trying to ease
the sad, burning pressure there. God, he was so helpless. He depended on her
completely to make the correct decision.

She took a long shuddering breath and then released her
remaining clenched fist.

No, she couldn’t risk Dr. Edmonton. She must care for the
stranger herself. While living here in this boardinghouse, she had learned much
from listening to the other women, too poor to afford doctors for their
families. They often shared nursing wisdom and herbal recipes handed down
through generations. She would dose him with elderberry tea and other things.

What to do first? The delirium. His fever must be brought
down. It appeared to be cooking his brain. She must unclothe him and bathe him
in cold water.

The prospect of stripping an unconscious man didn’t
intimidate her. She wasn’t a virgin. For a young woman on her own, and who was
good for nothing but aimless daydreams, virginity was an unaffordable luxury.
From the doctor who cared for Papa in his worst crisis to the clergyman who had
seen him laid in a pauper’s grave, there were always men willing to give her a
little help along the way. And she had so badly needed help, so many times. Too
many times.

Bedding men in exchange for their help, their money—that was
one thing. But what she did not need was to have her private life entangled
with any man. And this one was sleeping in her bed

Well, she’d just have to care for him the best she could and
hope that when he awoke his memory would be fully intact and he could take
himself back to his own world. The sooner the better. But first she’d have to
nurse him back to some semblance of health.