Miss Quinn's Quandary (16 page)

After several healthy swallows of the potent spirit, in addition
to his present condition, Sir Randall had quite lost all his self-restraint and
had begun a stream of incoherent babbling.

“Ah, Larissa.” he beckoned. “Come sit by me, my sweet.”

With a quick, unsettling glance to Lord William she approached
the bed. Sir Randall reached out and took her hand, drawing her near. She hoped
Sir Randall would not say anything to embarrass either one of them.

He covered the back of her hand with kisses, then rubbed it
against his cheek. “How I’ve dreamed of us like this, so many times.” Then
pressed her hand to his cheek.

“Me, lying next to you?” she whispered in half amusement and half
surprise.

“Only you are wrapped in my arms.”

Larissa watched the strain on his face in an attempt to lift his
injured arm and bring it around her.

“And just as in my dreams. Some force beyond my control prevents
me from moving to do so.” He gave a dramatic groan, displaying his futility. “I
am a complete ass,” Sir Randall willingly announced. “I was born one.”

“And you’ll always be one. I’ve never had a doubt,” Lord William
concluded in hopes of ending the patient’s ramblings. “Now keep quiet and lie
still. This will hurt plenty.”

“I’ve always hated you, Wills,” Randall snarled at his friend.

“I know. You’d do the exact same for me, I wager.”

“You bet I would,” Randall responded, unaware of what was about
to happen to him.

“He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.” Lord William moved to the
hearth and placed the poker into the flames, heating the element. “Open the
windows,” he said. “We’re going to need some fresh air.”

Larissa pulled aside the heavy drawn drapes, threw open the
windows and returned to the bed.

“Lay across his body and hold his good arm down tight,” Lord
William instructed.

Larissa did as he asked and laid across his torso, pinning his
good arm down with both her hands. In his inebriated state, Sir Randall’s head
rolled to one side. His alcohol-glazed eyes stared into Larissa’s face.

“You s-smell s-so good,” Sir Randall whispered to Larissa. “Some
men would do anything to be this close to a beautiful lady.”

“I wish you would stop this nonsense, you’re seriously hurt.” If
only he had not been foxed when he said that.

Lord William drew the red hot poker from the fire and approached
the bed. He used his knee to hold his friend down, took a deep breath, and
pressed the heated poker into the wound.

It only took a few seconds.

A sickening hissing sound mingled with the putrid odor of burning
flesh permeated the air. As Lord William predicted, Sir Randall fell
unconscious before crying out.

Larissa leaped off the bed and ran to the window, gasping for
fresh air. “What are we to do about the smell?” she managed between gulps of
fresh air.

“It will clear.” Lord William’s face contorted in a dreadful
mask, waving the smell away with his hand. He turned Sir Randall to his side
and completed the treatment, sending a second wave of noxious fumes into the
room.

Again Larissa leaned out of the casement, purging her lungs of
the horrid smell.

“Not before questions are asked,” she pointed out. How would they
explain the stench? The answer came to her. She left Sir Randall’s room through
the connecting doors. She returned from her room with a pair of scissors and
handed them to Lord William.

One by one, she removed the pins from her head. Her hair tumbled
down past her shoulders. Lord William regarded her actions with a quizzical eye
and stared at the cold metal tool in his hand.

“What do you want me to do with these?” he said, brandishing the
scissors.

“I want you to cut my hair, here.” She indicated at shoulder
length.

“What?” he balked, setting them on the
table.
“What bird-witted start are you up to now?”

Larissa spun to face him. “To explain the smell, of course. This
stench won’t be gone by morning. I’ll tell the servants that in his inebriated
condition, Sir Randall cut my hair and burned the locks.”

“Ah,” Lord William brightened, spotting her reasoning. “Capital
idea,” he brightened.

“But I will need some help.” She handed the scissors, handle
first, again to Lord William, who accepted. “I cannot manage by myself.”

Larissa held up most of her hair, allowing a fine layer to hang
down her back. Slicing through her hair, he removed the long, cut section and
laid it aside on the table. Layer by layer, he followed the previously cut
length until all her hair fell just short of her shoulders.

“I’ve done a ghastly thing,” he said, noting his work.

“Nonsense, you’ve most likely saved Sir Randall’s life.”

Larissa gathered the cut hair and scattered a small portion over
the fire. The hair shriveled in the heat and added to the dreadful smell,
leaving small curly remnants to serve as evidence. “That should suffice. We
only need enough to explain the smell, there’s no need to add to it.”

“Randall will draw my cork for ruining your mane. And by the bye,
what do you plan to do with the remainder?”

“You shouldn’t worry, I shall place it where no one will ever
find it.”

“I’ll likely be held for aiding a criminal and for telling such a
bounder in the first place.”

“Lord William, I think you worry too much.” Larissa walked her
accomplice to the door and saw him out. “Just leave the rest to me.” She
glanced at Sir Randall resting in his bed and fingered the blunt edges of her
newly shorn hair.

It was her sincerest hope that in the end all would set itself to
right.

Before settling herself in a chair at Sir Randall’s side for the
night, Larissa removed the torn, bloodied sleeve of his jacket and hung the
coat sleeve-side-out in the clothespress. If anyone should search, all would
look as it should.

Larissa folded her locks and the bloody sleeves in the center of
the pillow of the tapestry she had recently finished and began to stitch the
last side closed. She would keep the pillow, and the evidence of last night
would stay well hidden.

Throughout the night, the springs of Sir Randall’s bed groaned
under the strain of his restless sleep. She hoped fever would not take hold. He
moaned countless times and even called out her name. She stayed by his side to
keep him quiet and comfortable.

In the morning when Randall woke, his whole body ached. He had
drunk himself into only a few stupors in his life, but this time he had no
doubt he had gone far beyond what he considered the norm. Besides the glass of
wine with dinner and a few sips of port after, he didn’t even recall drinking.
His eyes cracked open and he tried to move.

Starting from his right shoulder, spreading out to his hand,
there was pain. When he reached to massage it, he found a bandage covering his
upper arm.

A glance at his surroundings told him he lay in his bedroom.
Asleep in a chair by his bedside lay Larissa. “What’s happened?” he rasped,
feeling disoriented.

She moved to his side. Her hands pressed his cheeks and forehead
as if he were ill. Randall inhaled her enticing fragrance of spring, freshness,
and sunlight. Her voice whispered soft and gentle like mist on a passing
breeze. Her lovely face hovered above him, calling him by name, beckoning him.
He reached out and pulled her close.

“What happened?” His throat felt scratchy as he spoke.

“Do you not remember?”

“No. Nothing.” His head hurt too much to even attempt the effort.

“The robbery? Getting shot? Stopping the runaway horses?”

Randall’s hand fell from her. “Sounds as if I was quite the hero.”

“Not exactly,” she corrected, moving away from the bed.

He stared at Larissa. This was more than an alcohol induced
hallucination. There was something decidedly different about her. Yet it did
not come to him at once.

“What has happened to your hair?”

A light flush came over Larissa’s cheeks when she reached up and
fingered the loose tendrils about her head. With most of the length removed,
her hair fell into soft curls, framing her face.

“I had Lord William cut my hair to explain the smell in your room.”

“Smell?” Randall sniffed, trying to determine if a scent was
present in his room. “I don’t smell anything.”

“We had to cauterize that nasty wound on your arm last night. It
left quite a stench.”

Randall felt the wound on his upper arm. It throbbed in pain.

Events of the previous night began to surface. The dinner at
Ardsmore’s
. Driving home with Larissa. The robbery. Being
shot. Taking a peek at her ankles. How could he have forgotten?

“How ever did we manage to return?” he asked.

“I drove the curricle.”

“You?” How did she…how could she manage? Randall’s head throbbed.

Without a knock, William entered and closed the door behind him.
“Gad, you look a fright.”

“And good morning to you as well,” Randall replied in amusement.
“How much of this are you involved in?”

“Only seeing you up to your room, getting you drunker than a
lord, and acting as your doctor.”

“So you’re responsible. Why didn’t you just let me die?” Between
the pain emanating from his arm, the unbearable pounding in his head and the
nausea caused by the drink, Randall did not feel much like living.

“You weren’t that bad off,” his friend assured him. “Wouldn’t
have done it unless it was completely necessary.” William crossed his arms and
leaned against one of the bedposts in a cavalier fashion.

“So you say,” Randall mused. “I have yet to reach the same
conclusion myself.”

“You have, my friend, given a whole new meaning to ‘bloody
nuisance!”’ William chucked. “If you haven’t heard yet, ole boy,
Bussin
’ Billy was shot last night. And just by an
unbelievable coincidence, he is reported to be wounded in exactly the same
place as you.”

“
Bussin
’ Billy was shot in the right
arm last night? I was shot in the right arm last night. Someone might mistake
my coincidental injury and assume
Bussin
’ Billy and I
are one and the same.”

“If they found out, I imagine Bow Street might jump to the very
same conclusion.”

“That doesn’t sound much like a coincidence at all.”

William glanced to the vigilant Larissa and remarked in a laconic
tone, “You see, after all Randall has been through last night, he still remains
sharp as ever.”

“This is not a joking matter,” Randall protested, bringing
himself upright even though it pained him.

“You find, my dear friend, if you will take a closer look, I am
not sporting a smile. Terrance is not going to look kindly upon this if he
finds out.” William gave a shrug. “I might suggest you put in an appearance below
stairs to dissuade suspicion.”

“I’ve made the excuse you are feeling poorly,” Larissa added.
“Your appearance last night was enough to convince the others.”

“I’ll need help dressing,” Randall smiled at Larissa, knowing she
had no intention of lending a hand, or laying a hand on his person.

“Won’t do for a lady to tie your cravat, don’t you know,” William
interjected.

“You shan’t have to face that problem,” Larissa confessed. Her
eyes were downcast and her voice hesitant. “I needed to bind your wound. I’ve already
sacrificed one of my underskirts. I’m afraid I’ve used a few of your
neckcloths
as dressing.”

“I only have a few.” He sounded outraged. “How could you—”

“I suppose you could borrow some from Lord William, can you not?”
She looked hopefully at William.

Randall grimaced. “I suppose it’s not like asking to wear his
small clothes is it?”

“We’ll make do,” William said. “Can’t have my valet involved. The
man couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.” Randall knew his friend
had resigned himself that he must lend a hand. “I suppose that leaves me.”

Larissa left Lord William to aid Sir Randall with his morning
toilet. Sir Randall had not appreciated all that she had done for him. To scold
her for using his
neckcloths
for bandages! His life
must certainly be worth more than a few strips of linen. That silly man!

Dorothea sat alone at the long table. “There you are!” The
expression on her face matched the delight in her eyes when Larissa entered the
room. “Where have you been? What’s happened to your hair?”

“I am sorry I’ve taken so long, I suppose I lost track of the
time. I was in my room sewing.” At least that much was true. Larissa had spent
nearly the entire night finishing the embroidery, cutting out the pillow, and
sealing the incriminating evidence into the cushion.

Larissa fingered her shorn locks and knew what she was about to
say would be a complete lie. “Sir Randall had a bit too much to drink last
night. I’m afraid he experienced a spark of inspiration. He thought he was a
hairdresser.”

“Oh, dear,” Dorothea voiced in sympathy, but a smile emerged.

“I suppose I shouldn’t humor him. Someday he may wish to be a
modiste, then I shall really be in the briars.”

“I would hate to imagine. He’ll have you scandalously draped in
gauze.” Her laughter was quickly replaced by a stifled yawn.

Larissa poured herself a cup of tea and sat next to Dorothea.
“How are you doing this morning and how is your mother?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well. Must have been the robbery.”

“I imagine it was very disturbing.” Larissa tried her very best
to behave as if nothing unusual had happened.

“And
Maman
is so out of sorts, she
cannot leave her bed.” Melancholy left Dorothea momentarily. “She wishes me to
thank you for returning her jewels so promptly. She feels better knowing all
her jewelry is safe and sound.”

Larissa tried not to look shocked at the news of the return of
Lady
Brookhurst’s
stolen jewels. Strange things were
happening. Larissa harbored an injured man and lied at every turn. Deception
was not dreamy or romantic, it was laced with fear and danger. One wrong word
could give her away. If she were not believed, it could cost Sir Randall his
life.

With the afternoon came the return of Daniel Lawrence. Melton and
Lawrence entered the breakfast room first, two uniformed officers trailed
behind. The
marquess
was in the midst of explaining
the actions following the robbery, after they had returned to
Carswell
Castle.

Melton paused and gave Randall a smile that bordered on a leer.

“Sir Randall,” Lawrence acknowledged.

“Mr. Lawrence,” Randall responded. He set his coffee cup down
with his left hand, holding his right arm still by his side.

“I think you’ll find Sir Randall a bit unresponsive this morning.”
Melton winked. Randall stood and moved to the opposite side of the table to
join the men, keeping movement with his upper body to a minimum.

Lawrence raised his brows. Randall imagined he was suspicious of
everyone and everything.

“My word,” Lord Melton exclaimed. “You certainly do make a
nuisance of yourself when you’re bosky, don’t you ole boy?” The
marquess
gave Randall a clap on his shoulder. The injured
one.

Randall gave a roar of laugher to mask his pain and took a step
away. Melton advanced.

“It’s surprising when you consider you couldn’t walk up to your
own bed when you came home. Must have caught a second wind, hey?” The
marquess
smacked him a second time.

Randall cried out again, masking his pain with laughter.

Mr. Lawrence must have noticed Randall’s odd movements. He took a
step toward Randall and demanded, “I would ask you to remove your coat so I
might examine your arm.” He paused. “You may comply with my wishes or I shall
have these gentlemen do so forcibly. Either way I shall have my curiosity
satisfied.”