The Emerald Duchess (11 page)

“Lady Quentin!” the duke called out. “Why are you here?”

Without waiting for her reply, he climbed into the carriage and took her hands in his. His black eyes went over both women, their air of exhaustion and their dishevelment and dirty, bloodstained gowns, and he frowned.

“I came to find my husband, your Grace,” Alicia said. “He is with the surgeons now, but they would not let me stay with him.”

“Certainly not,” the duke agreed. “But forgive me, Lady Quentin, you should return to Brussels now, although how you will get these beasts to carry you that far I do not know.”

“I intend to wait so
I
can take Tony back and nurse him,” Lady Quentin said in a firm voice that brooked no argument. “I cannot believe that my care, and Nelly’s, cannot help but be superior to anything Tony might experience in that crowded hospital.”

“But he may not be able to be moved,” the duke reasoned. “Then we will nurse him here. There must be some place that will take us in, some chateau, even a farmhouse.”

The duke seemed to come to a decision, for he climbed down from the carriage after one more searching look at Lady Quentin and her maid. “Wait here,” he commanded as he hurried into the hospital. It was several minutes before he came back and called to a liveried servant nearby, “The horses, at once!”

Emily felt a pang of bitter disappointment that he was leaving them. She had felt so much better after she saw him, sure that he would take care of everything and she would not have to be frightened anymore.

He came up to the carriage again. “Lady Quentin, I have seen the doctors, and although your husband is very weak, there is every chance of his recovery with careful nursing, but they say that he must not be moved any great distance for some time, for he has lost much blood.
I
will go ahead and make sure that a farmhouse that I know of is ready to take you in. You there,” he called to Corporal Deems, “follow the road back toward Brussels as soon as the captain is released to his wife. Travel slowly so as not to jar him, and I will have my man waiting for you at a crossroads some two miles from Waterloo to show you the way.”

The corporal nodded and Lady Quentin smiled at the duke.
“You are too kind, your Grace!” she exclaimed. “How can we ever thank you?”

The duke waved an impatient hand of dismissal as his groom brought his horse. “Such bravery as you ladies have shown today must be rewarded, m’lady. All will be well, you’ll see.”

When he was mounted, his eyes went to Emily’s face and he added, as if for her alone, “We shall meet again, presently.” He waited for a moment until the girl nodded, and then he cantered away.

6

As the duke rode away, followed by his groom, he called himself every kind of idiot, for to have embroiled himself in the Quentins’ problems could mean nothing but trouble for him. The doctors had told him that there was little chance that the captain would be able to keep the badly wounded arm. They had not removed it because he was so weak from loss of blood that they knew he would not survive the further shock of an amputation, but they fully expected he would have to undergo such surgery as soon as he was stronger. The duke shook his head and resolved to keep that information to himself, at least for now. He had been stunned to see the superficial Lady Quentin there in the carnage that was still Waterloo village, but although he admired her courage in seeking out her husband, if he were to be honest with himself he would have to admit it had been her maid who had inspired his chivalrous gesture. One look at those speaking emerald eyes, filled with such fear and dread even as she succeeded in keeping herself under firm control, had caused him to put his own wants and comforts aside and do what he could to help her. As he rode, he shook his head again. Fool, fool! He knew the signs as well as anyone, and it was obvious that he was fast succumbing to her considerable attractions—and at such a time, too.

He had completed his commission for the War Office and had had every intention of taking ship for England as soon as it could be arranged, but now he had committed himself to a sojourn of indeterminate length in an uncomfortable farmhouse, all for the sake of a common maid—and a maid who had never ever shown any reciprocal attraction for him at
that. No, he corrected himself, his black eyes lighting up in memory, there was nothing common about Margaret Nelson except her occupation, but he had never dallied with servants or the lower orders, for he was much too fastidious, or so he had always imagined before now.

As he turned his horse onto the rough track that led to the farmhouse one of the senior officers had told him about, he also admitted he was not at all averse to a period of time spent in her company, no matter how primitive the surroundings. She was an unusual challenge, and perhaps he could make her want him as much as he was beginning to want her; Lord knows he had had numerous successes before this in persuading the feminine sex of his desirability.

The question of marriage never crossed his mind. The Saint Allyns had always been a proud family; when the time came, he would propose to some worthy lady of equal birth and fortune, hoping she would not be too boring or demanding or incompatible, not that that was of any consequence whatsoever. He had been brought up to realize that the only thing that was important was that the Dukes of Wrotherham should continue to descend from father to son in a direct line, as they had done since the duchy was established in 1432 by Henry VI, in reward for some deed of valor or service by the first holder of the title. He had been named for his ancestor, and he had often wondered what the first Charles Alistair Saint Allyn had done to deserve such royal recognition.

He pulled up before a hedge to survey the farmhouse a little way ahead. It was larger than he had expected, but it looked lonely and empty, for there was no smoke coming from any of the chimneys. Outside of a large dog lying before the stable door and some chickens scratching in a dusty yard, there was not a soul in sight. The duke cursed under his breath and heard his groom coughing behind him, reminding him of his presence.

“No one home, Thomas, now what?” he asked, urging his horse into a slow walk. “We shall have to persuade that mongrel that we are worthy of being the next tenants. I hope you are good with dogs, my boy.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, your Grace,” his groom replied with a grin, and the duke followed his pointing crop to see a man coming out of one of the ba
rn
s. He urged his horse to a quicker pace.

“You there!
Bonjour, mon homme. Ecoutez-moi
,” he called, and the farmer stopped, taking his pipe from his mouth in amazement at the richly dressed foreigner and his servant who were turning into his yard.

Fortunately the man spoke French as well as his native Flemish, and the duke was able to make himself understood. After the farmer identified himself as Monsieur Bordreau, he did not speak again, but stared impassively at his visitor while the situation was explained to him. There was a long moment of silence until the duke reached for his pocketbook and removed a thick packet of bills. At this, Monsieur Bordreau’s eyes brightened, and the price to rent the farm was soon agreed on. There was no one to dispossess but himself, for he had sent his wife and daughters to Brussels before the fighting began, and was not at all averse to joining them there, now that it would be so lucrative to do so. He called, and a boy he called Paul came out of one of the sheds, gawking and grinning. It was plain he was a half-wit, and the duke was tempted to refuse his services until Thomas made so bold as to point out that someone was needed to look after the animals and the other routines of the place, determined it was not to be himself.

While the farmer explained the situation to the boy, the duke was busy instructing his groom.

“Ride back to the crossroads, Thomas, and wait there for Lady Quentin’s carriage. Do not bother to escort them here; the corporal can find the place with ease. Instead, ride for Brussels at once. We will need food, supplies, and I shall need clothes for at least a week. Go as quickly as you can. When you return, bring my cook and one of the maids as well, but on no account are you to bring Greene.”

The groom hid a grin. Greene was the duke’s valet, and a loftier, more high-and-mighty individual he had yet to see.

“He is of no use to us at all unless he is prepared to help nurse the captain. Be sure to explain how I am situated, so he will understand I will not be dressing for dinner every evening and there will be no one to remark my poorly polished boots and less-than-exquisite cravats. Off with you, now. I shall expect you no later than noon tomorrow. Until then, I am sure I can manage.”

The groom touched his cap in salute and trotted away even as the duke wondered if his last statement had not been overly optimistic. He shrugged as he prepared to inspect the farmhouse with Bordreau. There was, after all, the corporal, and between them they would have to make do.

The farmhouse itself was clean, although the rooms were small and dark and cramped. He set the boy to making up the fires while he tried to decide if the captain would be easier to care for on the ground floor. The only room that was at all suitable was the parlor, but since he could not picture himself sitting in the kitchen with his cook and the half-wit even in a situation like this, he decided they would have to cope with the steep, narrow stairs.

In a short time, the farmer bowed himself away and left in an ancient gig, and the duke banished Paul to the stables.

It was some time before he heard the sounds of a team and carriage. He had aired one of the upper bedrooms, turning back the sheets and fetching a basin and some water from the kitchen while he waited, and now he hurried outside to help.

Lady Quentin was seated in the back of the carriage, once again supporting her husband’s unconscious body in her arms. The duke noted the man’s extreme pallor and many bandages and darted a glance at the corporal, only to see him shake his head in fearful sorrow. Beside him on the perch was Miss Nelson, holding a large medicine case, which reassured the duke somewhat. He tied the tired horses to a fence and called for Paul to care for them before he and the corporal lifted the captain down and carried him into the farmhouse and up the stairs, being as careful as they could not to jar him. Lady Quentin preceded them, her face white and strained. The duke was perspiring when at last they laid the wounded man on the bed, for the captain was tall and muscled, and the stairs were steep.

“If you will retire for a minute, m’lady,” he said, coming to take her by the arm, “the corporal and I will undress your husband and put him to bed. Perhaps you might inspect the other bedrooms and choose one you can share with your maid. There are only three that are at all suitable.” For a moment his expression darkened and he added, “I am sorry this is the best I could find in the circumstances.”

Lady Quentin summoned up a tired smile as she squeezed his arm. “As if it matters, sir! You have been such a help, Tony and I can never thank you. My maid and I will be content anywhere, won’t we, Nelly?”

The girl murmured her assent as she put the medicine case down on the rough bureau and prepared to follow her mistress from the room.

“I shall settle in while you are making Tony more comfortable. Nelly, bring in our cases and then see about making us some tea, if you please, and then
...”

She moved away and the duke shut the door behind her and stared at the old soldier. “How bad is he, man?” he asked in a quiet voice, for he did not want to distress Lady Quentin.

“Bad as I’ve ever seen, sir,” the corporal said, beginning to remove the captain’s coat. “I never thought we’d get him this far alive, your Grace, but there’s no telling the lady that. She is sure that, now she has him in her care, she will nurse him back to health in no time.” He shook his head as he began to ease off the captain’s boots, and the duke hurried to hold his leg still. In a few moments, they had him in one of the farmer’s clean nightshirts and beneath the covers. The duke felt for a pulse. It was weak and thready, and he frowned.

“Women can sometimes work miracles, Corporal, and in this case, a miracle is what we need. I’ll call her now and fetch some tea for us all.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll wait here to see if anything else is required,” the old soldier said.

After Lady Quentin had gone in to her husband, the duke ran down the stairs and made his way to the kitchen again. Miss Nelson, he saw with approval, had found a voluminous apron that no doubt belonged to the farmer’s good wife, and she had put the kettle on the fire and set out a teapot and some cups, but now she was wandering around peering into boxes and sacks, looking confused as well as exhausted. He thought she also looked adorable, even in her disheveled state, with the huge apron wrapped around her almost twice, and he wished he might take her in his arms and comfort her. Instead, he leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms.

“There is some problem, Miss Nelson?” he asked, his face somber. “No tea? Sugar?”

Emily stared back at him. “I have found what there is of the tea, but there is no sugar, your Grace,” she said, brushing back one of the tendrils that had escaped her severe chignon. “But what are we to eat? Lady Quentin has had nothing today but some bread and cheese, and there is nothing left in the basket to give her, or indeed, any of us.” She looked distraught as she added, “There does not seem to be anything here that will serve as our dinner.
”

The duke strolled in and leaned against the deal table. “In that case we can be thankful this is a farm. I will have the boy kill us a chicken and fetch some eggs as well. You continue to search. Perhaps there is something in the larder?” He moved toward the door and then he heard a choked little cry and turned back, his black brows rising when he saw her flushed face.

“But that won’t do a bit of good, your Grace! I ... I don’t know how to cook anything—so whatever would I do with a chicken?”

At that the duke laughed. “I take it, then, that you yourself were not raised in the country, Miss Nelson?” At the shake of her head he added, “By tomorrow we will have my own cook here, for I sent Thomas into Brussels to fetch her, yes, and a maid as well. Until then, we will just have to figure out between us what you do with a dead chicken.” He saw that Miss Nelson’s eyes were lowered and she was trying not to cry. “Do not be distressed, my dear,” he added softly, “I have no idea what you do with ’em either.”

When he came back some time later, he had removed his riding coat and cravat and loosened his shirt, and he held a dead chicken in each well-cared-for hand. Emily thought she had never seen anything so incongruous as the elegant duke thus employed, but she did not smile. Corporal Deems, who had been seated at the kitchen table rose and took the birds from him, saying, “Missy has been telling me, your Grace, of her problems. Now, I don’t claim to be what you might call a chef, but many a scrawny Spanish hen did I prepare during the Peninsular War. We’ll manage!”

“Thank heavens,” the duke replied, wiping his hands on a towel. “You are a godsend, Corporal! I was about to, er, pop ’em in a pot and then go away and let them stew for a respectable amount of time. Come, Miss Nelson, let us take some tea to Lady Quentin and give the corporal the peace and quiet I am sure he needs for his culinary endeavors.”

As the two of them left the room, the corporal shook his head as he surveyed the two chickens lying on the table. “Pop ’em in the pot, your Grace?” he muttered. “Before they’ve been drawn and plucked? Aye, ’tis a good thing I’m here, all right.”

The duke noticed that Miss Nelson stumbled a little on the steep stairs, even though he had insisted on carrying the tray for her. Lady Quentin met them at the door of the bedroom and came out into the hall to whisper to them as she drank her tea.

“He seems to be in a more restful sleep now,” she said, her eyes glowing with her relief.

“That is good, Lady Quentin, and since I see we cannot dislodge you from his side, may
I
suggest that Miss Nelson and I get some rest now? It will be necessary to divide the nursing duties through the night, and it will do no good for all of us to remain awake now. Call us in an hour or so, and then we can care for the captain while you lie down.”

“I shall be happy to sit with the captain first, m’lady,” Emily said.

“No, the duke is right, Nelly. There is no need for anyone else at this time, and you know I could not sleep just yet. I will call Corporal Deems if I need any help.”

At that welcome news, Emily concealed a sigh of relief and went away to the bedroom Lady Quentin had chosen. In no time at all she was fast asleep on a pallet she arranged on the floor.

In the future, whenever she remembered that first night at the farmhouse near Waterloo, Emily could only recall a kaleidoscope of hurried impressions: the glow of the old
-
fashioned lamps and tallow candles, the endless trips up and down the narrow stairs, sleeping for what seemed to be only a few minutes and then being shaken by Lady Quentin just before she fell on her bed in exhaustion, and the huge plate of chicken stew she had devoured, to Corp
o
ral Deems’ delight. And she remembered the duke: how he had sat with her and the corporal at the kitchen table to eat, as easy as if he were in his own dining room attended by his butler and footmen, asking the old soldier for stories of the Peninsular War when he saw she was too tired to talk. And she remembered how he had insisted on carrying the tea tray for her, and other less pleasant objects as well, the way he had looked holding the two chickens, the armloads of wood he brought in, although she was sure he had never carried wood in his life, and most of all she remembered how he had come to join her sometime
in the middle of the night as she sat by the captain’s bed.

Tony Quentin had still not recovered consciousness, but he was becoming restless, tossing and turning in the bed until she was sure he would loosen the dressings and start bleeding again. She tried to soothe him and hold him still, but he was a strong man and he was reliving the battle, that much was sure from his disjointed words and cries. She was just about exhausted when she heard the door latch, but she did not turn. “There, Captain,” she said as calmly as she could, “you must lie still, please, you must.”

“Come on, men! Forward! Sergeant Boothby, get to the right flank and tell the colonel
...
but we will win
...
brave lad, brave lad! Forward! Grantman and Cagell
...
both gone? How many men are left?
...
No, not Dane! Say not that it was Dane who was killed!
...
Where’s the Austrian command now? Is the chateau holding? ... Ah, it hurts, it hurts!”

Emily could not help but weep as she laid him back panting on his pillow and dampened a cloth in cold water, praying her mistress would not wake at his cries.

“He is close to coming to himself,” the duke’s deep voice remarked behind her, and she turned a little to see him standing there in his open-necked shirt and breeches. The black curly hair on his chest was clearly visible. As she put the cloth on the captain’s forehead, the duke reached out and smoothed back her hair where it had fallen against her cheek, and then he squeezed her shoulder.

“I will stay with you, my dear, until he wakes. Perhaps we can get some of this good broth into him; at the least he should have some laudanum for the pain and to help him sleep.”