Lord Langley Is Back in Town (31 page)

He set down the pistol. “Haven’t you a concern for the other fellow?”

“No. None.” She took another measure of his injuries and brushed past him. Good heavens, how far had he come, staggering about like this? Whatever had happened? A thousand questions she knew he wouldn’t answer filled her thoughts as she pulled up on the handle of the pump, and then went to work filling a bucket.

They’d need far more hot water than he had.

Then it struck her.
They
.

The bucket sloshed over and she stopped pumping. Stopped herself from considering such a notion. Carrying it to the reservoir in the range, she filled it back up. Then lighting a taper, she went to the cupboard in the back of the kitchen, raiding the cabinet of towels, cloths, and soap.

It wasn’t her mother’s kitchen back home, with its pots of unguents, needles for stitching, and binding strips, but this meager selection would have to do.

When she turned around, she found Langley slumped in the chair, his feet in the steaming tub of water. His eyes were closed and he looked utterly lost.

He hadn’t found the evidence he needed. Oh, if only he would let her help him. Damn the man for being so bloody proud, for coming from such a long line of heroic sorts, for yes, she had done her checking on him.

If only . . .

Minerva ignored the pang in her heart, ignored the impropriety of the situation, and did her level best to remember the times she’d watched her mother put some other poor, battered soul to rights.

Still, having watched a deed wasn’t the same as the actual doing. She wasn’t even sure where to start.

Get him clean
, she could almost hear her mother say.
Clean and dry
.

Wash him? She’d never washed a man before, never seen such a man all but naked. Yes, she’d been married, but to Phillip Sterling, who, by the time she’d wed him, was well past his prime—and she’d never seen him naked, mercifully—for he always came to her late, after a night of debauchery, to make a few drunken fumbled attempts in the dark, and then left.

Thankfully . . .

But Lord Langley was different. In excellent shape, his muscled shoulders, taut back, and lean frame left her breathless, slightly intoxicated. Even battered and broken as he was, the sheer masculine power beneath the bruises and dirt left her wavering.

As it had the other night in the carriage . . .

Heavens! It was just as Lucy and Elinor had said.
That the right man . . .

Now Minerva wavered.

No, Lord Langley was not the right man for her. He couldn’t be.

Still, the notion terrified her. What if he was? Then the last thing she could do was fail at this. He needed her.

Certainly he wasn’t asking her, but her heart was.

Sighing to herself, she dipped the pan into the tub and glanced at him.
Where do I begin?

Then it was if her long-lost mother gave her a nudge filled with courage.
At the beginning.

Minerva whispered softly to him, “Lean over.”

He did, and she gently poured the water over his head, letting it run through his matted hair and down his shoulders. Then without another word she lathered up her hands and went to work. Silently she cleaned his hair and began to carefully wash his face.

His gaze met hers as she wiped away the blood around his nose, the silence between them putting her on edge. “You were gone all day,” she said quietly.

There, it wasn’t a question. Just a statement.

Filled with questions.

Langley winced as she ran the cloth around his jawline. “Did you miss me?”

“I was worried,” she said honestly. Nor could she help adding, “And you reek of the Thames.”

“It wasn’t by choice,” he offered. But that was all he offered.

So she rinsed the cloth and went back to work on his shoulders, the breadth of his back. Beneath her fingers she felt long, thick welts, and she shivered. Reaching for the candle, she held it up to reveal a series of deep scars running from the top of his shoulders all the way down.

“Is there something wrong?” Langley asked.

Minerva shook her head and set down the candle. Rinsing out the cloth, she continued, shocked by what she’d seen.

Yes, she knew he’d been imprisoned, Jamilla had said as much, but this was far worse than just being locked up. He’d been whipped at some point in his rapscallion life. Beaten savagely. She shuddered to think of how such a thing happened, and when she ran the cloth down the length of his arm, she found more scars around his wrists, the sort that comes from bindings.

Arrested? Kidnapped? Set upon? She didn’t know, didn’t dare pry. But one thing was for certain, he’d been taken and beaten. But then again the scar along his hairline that ran all the way back behind his ear said that much. But that hadn’t been the only time. The masculine body beneath her fingers was not that of a spoiled toff, nor of a man accustomed only to the comforts of regal palaces and seducing women as his reputation suggested.

Lord Langley had lived a very different life than the one she’d so blithely assumed.

Minerva didn’t realize it, but she’d paused, and the stillness of the house and the room around them suddenly loomed like the darkness of night.

“You needn’t do this,” he said to her, reaching for the cloth. “You shouldn’t be involved.”

She pulled the cloth back from him and continued working, trying to ignore the lines and planes of his muscles, of the hardened power beneath the bruised veneer. “I became involved the moment you tumbled into my bedchamber, when you moved into my house without asking. No, I am involved whether I like it or not.”

“I won’t ask which.”

“That’s sensible of you,” she told him tartly, glancing at his nose. She handed him a cloth and then pressed his hand to it to staunch the bleeding. “Is it broken?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slightly.

She went to the stove and dipped the pan into the tank. The water was no longer cold, but it wasn’t scaldingly hot either.

But it was cleaner than the growing bilge in the tub.

“I didn’t think so from the look of it,” she said, “but you would know best.”

“You have a talent for this,” he said softly.

Minerva glanced away. “My mother had the talent. I only watched.”

“And helped. I can’t imagine a bossy chit like you just watching.”

She smiled. “I helped when she was busy with other matters.”

He watched her tear a set of cloths and pick through the pots of unguents. “Not the usual talent one finds in a lady. Especially a countess, or a future duchess.”

“My mother was an unusual woman.” And not the countess. Just the daughter of the local witch, as most liked to say.

“As is her daughter,” he murmured as he stretched and tested his shoulders.

Yes, quite unusual
, she mused silently. The bastard daughter foisted off as the legitimate one. Certainly not your average marchioness.

Then again, she thought, slanting a glance at him over her shoulder, he might not be so surprised. He might not even care that she wasn’t . . . who she was supposed to be.

What would Lord Langley think of plain Maggie Owens?

“Here, I would have thought the lofty Lady Standon would call Mrs. Hutchinson to help,” he was saying. “This seems more her territory.”

Minerva shook her head. “Never. She gossips too much. Something I don’t think you want or need.”

He didn’t answer.

“At least she’d offer me a strong drink,” he teased. “A good measure after being tossed around a bit. Steady my wits.”

Minerva snorted. “You don’t need a strong drink. As for your wits, I think they’ve been addled enough for one night. What you need is to get clean and dry and the bleeding stopped.”

“Minerva Sterling, you are the most sensible wom-an I have ever met.”

And here she’d spent all these years hiding behind a veneer of propriety and sensibility, but being branded so by his lips rankled her. She didn’t want to be sensible in his eyes. She wanted to be . . . oh, like the others . . . wild . . . irresistible . . . worldly . . . desirable . . .

“You are too old to be taking such risks,” she heard herself saying. Oh, heavens, she was too sensible for words!

He raised his weary head and managed to wink at her. “I’m not so ancient that I can’t take care of myself. I’ll have you know, there were six of them.”

She poured the less than warm water over him and set the pan down so she could settle her fisted hands on her hips. “And that is supposed to make me feel better?”

Six of them? He’d been set upon by six men? Why it took her breath away. And she told herself it wasn’t because he’d managed to best them—at least enough to escape with his life. No, not in the least. For she’d been terrified since she’d found him down here in the kitchen.

Then something else occurred to her and she cursed herself for not asking sooner. “Is Thomas-William . . . is he . . .”

She didn’t dare finish the rest of the question.

But Langley did. “Alive? Yes.” He glanced down at his bloodied and battered hands, which she was carefully wiping clean.

She nodded. She’d grown overly fond of Lucy’s taciturn servant. Still, “alive” didn’t tell the whole story. “Is he injured?”

“He’s a bit worse for wear, but he’ll heal.”

Minerva drew a deep breath and then sighed. “Is he safe?”

“Yes.”

She saw no need ask any more. But then again she’d been puzzling over the events at Langley House ever since they’d returned—and now, added to the evidence she’d seen on his back . . .

“Langley?”

“Hmm.”

“How was it that boxes continued to arrive at Langley House when everyone thought you dead . . . and I suspect you were . . .”

He glanced up at her, his expression unreadable for once.

“Detained?” she offered.

“Minerva—” He shook his head at her.

She was prying when he didn’t want her help, but she persisted. “Please, I want to be of assistance to you. Who could have sent them?”

He sat silently for a while, then sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Someone you worked with? An aide? A secretary? Another . . . diplomat?” She thought better of saying what she meant.

Another agent. One capable of betrayal.

He shook his head. “Good God, Minerva, is that all you’ve been doing since I left you? Coming up with theories?”

“Well, yes,” she told him. “What else was I to do?”

“Oh, demmit, if you must know—”

“I must—”

“Yes, I suppose you do. And most likely won’t let up until I do answer your questions.” He fixed a weighted glance on her, but Minerva held her ground.

“No, I won’t, and since you are in no condition to run off, I believe I have you at my mercy.”

He blew out a breathy snort. “I had a secretary, Neville Nottage.” Langley glanced away and took another deep breath before he continued. “He was a third or fourth son, I don’t recall, but he had no prospects, and he hardly made a splash in the diplomatic corps, but he did a remarkably good job at managing my business, though I never would have thought him capable of . . .”

Revenge. Betrayal. Even possibly murder.
Minerva’s imagination ran wild. Good heavens, could that dangerous man in the carriage have been this ordinary secretary?

“And then?”

“When I went missing in Paris, I was told he was dead . . .” Langley blew out a breath.

“But he isn’t,” she said with conviction.

“No. It appears that he and Sir Basil in the Foreign Office have been working together for years.” He rubbed his head. “I must have been hit hard, for I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

But she was ever so glad he was. “They did this to ruin you?”

“No, I think I was merely their means to something else. They needed a scapegoat, someone to point to if they were caught. This is treason we are talking about, Minerva. Something that cannot be taken lightly.”

When he glanced over at her, she could see the pain in his eyes. Nottage’s betrayal. The dangerous straits he was in.

“I’m ever so sorry,” she whispered.

He nodded and glanced away.

Oh, bother. And here she’d thought perhaps she could help, when all she’d done was stir up more painful memories. Glancing at him again, she took his hand in hers and gently pulled it away from his nose. To her relief the bleeding had stopped.

Now if only everything else—whatever madness was circling around him—could be as easily staunched.

Getting another pan of clean, warm water, she knelt down in front of him to wash his legs. Thick, muscled lengths covered in crisp hair. Filling the cloth with soap, she continued to wash him, running the cloth up and down his legs, marveling at the heat of his skin, the way it felt to caress him so . . . wishing she could take him in her arms and do more than just this . . .