The Gentleman and the Rogue (20 page)

He shook Jem's shoulder. The other man snorted and awoke. “What?”

“Time to rise.”

“Right.” Jem rolled over and pulled the covers around him.

Alan rose, relieved himself in the chamber pot, washed his face at the bedside table, and took fresh linens from his valise. He dressed, took a moment to rumple Jem's pallet so it would look as though it had been slept in, then stood over the covered lump with the sandy brown hair on his bed.

“Jem, you may sleep in, if you wish. I'm going to eat, then visit Schivvers.”

Jem bobbed upright, throwing back the covers. “I'm awake. I'll come with you. I could strike up more conversation with Footman Melvin and learn more about where the girl's kept.”

Alan could see he was eager to help, and he'd serve no purpose idling his time away at the inn. “Very well, but be circumspect in what you say.”

“Yes, sir.” Jem snapped a smart salute, the effect diminished by the fact that he was naked but for a rumpled sheet around his hips.

On impulse, Alan stooped, cupped Jem's jaw, and bestowed a quick kiss on his lips. The daring of that small act sent a thrill through him, and Jem's grin warmed him down to his toes.

“Get dressed. Hurry.”

* * *

After a hearty breakfast in the taproom, they went to the yard where the groom had the phaeton waiting, as Alan had requested. It was a gray day, the sky threatening but not yet delivering rain. They'd almost reached Derwent when the rain broke. It wasn't a deluge, more a light drizzle, not worth stopping to put up the top since they were almost at their destination. But both men were soaked to the skin by the time they'd reached the doctor's house.

Jem held the reins while Alan strode to the front door and lifted the knocker. The door opened almost before he'd let it drop. A stone-faced butler regarded him. Alan's call was unusually early, but he hadn't wanted to give Schivvers the chance to refuse to see him.

He produced his card and offered it to the butler. “Is Mr. Schivvers at home?”

“I will see if Mr. Schivvers is taking callers today.” The man ushered him into the parlor before leaving with the card on a silver tray.

Alan studied the parlor but found nothing remarkable about it. Since this was a rented home, Schivvers's personal stamp wasn't apparent in the furnishings or paintings. Alan guessed if he had freedom to explore the entire house, he'd find a more sinister chamber—a library of secret texts, perhaps, or a locked laboratory where the doctor indulged in his experiments. Or his imagination was running wild, and the surgeon wasn't nearly as threatening as Alan had once thought. All sorts of terrible things had happened during the war, on the battlefield and off it. Maybe in civilian life Schivvers was a kinder, better man. Maybe his ward was perfectly safe and the man perfectly sane, despite the flashes of madness Alan had believed he'd glimpsed. And maybe Jem could go an entire day without speaking—none of them bloody likely.

The butler returned, his footsteps almost silent on the plush Turkish carpet. “The master will see you. Please come with me.”

“My servant is outside with the horses. Could he wait in the kitchen? The day's turned blustery.”

“Certainly, sir.” The man led the way toward the back of the house, knocked on a door, and waited permission to enter.

Alan's chest felt tight, and his pulse beat too fast, as if he were about to face an entire enemy squadron rather than one man. He walked into Mr. Schivvers's study and took in the room at a glance before focusing on the doctor himself.

The man turned from the window, where rain pelted against the glass, to face Alan. He was every bit the tall, pale, elegant wraith Alan remembered. His silver blond hair was swept back from a patrician brow, and his facial features were classical. His nose was high-bridged, his jaw prominent, and his mouth a straight line with thin lips. His appearance was more aristocratic than his lineage, and he would not have looked out of place in the drawing rooms of the
haut ton.

“Sir Alan Watleigh, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

Alan had debated with himself how to approach his request, veering back and forth between portraying a manufactured bonhomie and delivering a flat request. In the end, he went for a little of both.

Stepping forward, he shook the man's hand. “It's been some time, Mr. Schivvers. How long have you been back from the war?” He countered the man's question with one of his own.

Schivvers gestured for Alan to sit and took a seat across from him before answering. “I've returned fairly recently. I realize the need for competent battlefield surgeons is ongoing, but after gaining custody of my ward, Ann, I decided it was time to retire from the field and bring the girl somewhere safe at last.”

“Ann Cutler? I remember the child, and truth to tell, sir, she is the reason for my visit.”

The doctor's brows shot up, yet he didn't seem nearly as surprised as he pretended to be. Of course he would've guessed Alan wanted something from him. It wasn't as if they'd been close friends and Alan would have driven all the way up to Sheffield to reminisce about the old days.

“What do you wish to discuss concerning Miss Cutler?” The man's tone was smooth and calm, but Alan sensed currents and eddies of turbulence underneath.

“As you know, her father, Private Charles Cutler, was under my command.”

The butler reentered the room bearing a tea tray, and Alan fell silent until he'd poured and left.

“On his deathbed,” he continued, “Cutler entrusted the care of his family to another of my men, Sergeant Badgeman. It was his dying wish that Alice and her daughter's interests were to be looked after by Badgeman—and by proxy, myself.”

“You're here to check on Ann's well-being?” Again Schivvers's tone remained calm, but Alan could practically feel the tension vibrating through him. He didn't like being questioned, and why would any man hate it so unless he had something to hide?

“Yes,” Alan answered simply.

“If the child is his concern, where is Sergeant Badgeman?”

“He understood you were in Portugal and left to seek you there.”

“And you felt compelled to come and talk to me immediately without sending correspondence first or waiting for your man to return? What sort of peril do you imagine the girl in to bring you here in such a hurry?”

Alan shook his head. “I didn't mean to suggest such a thing.”

Schivvers cut across him with a voice as sharp as glass. “Why did it take Badgeman so many months to attempt to fulfill his duty to Cutler? If he'd truly wanted to care for the man's family, he should have been there much sooner, offering aid and comfort. He wasn't present at Alice Cutler's deathbed; I was, and the woman entrusted her child to me.”

“As you may recall, I was sent home wounded,” Alan explained. “So was Badgeman, and when he'd healed, he remained at my side for many months, helping me to recover. It was only recently we learned about Mrs. Cutler's fate. Badgeman was devastated he hadn't been able to fulfill his promise to Charlie. He would like to do so now, and as Cutler's captain, I also feel obligated to step in.”

Schivvers sat back in his chair, stretching his long legs before him, feigning an ease Alan doubted he felt. “That is admirable, but there's really no need. As you can see, the girl is well cared for here. She wants for nothing.” He waved his hand to indicate the well-appointed study and the house beyond.

“I'm certain you've cared for Ann admirably. But this vow means everything to Badgeman, and I would like to help him in any way I can—legal, financial, whatever means necessary.” He dropped a polite hint of threat by suggesting legal avenues and a promise with the mention of possible financial gain.

“Of course I understand about a man's honor and his need to fulfill an oath, but you may tell your man his duty has been discharged. He promised Cutler his family would be looked after, and Ann is most certainly cared for. In the months she has lived as my ward, I've grown extremely fond of the child. I could not imagine giving her up.”

“I have looked into the matter of joint guardianship—”

“Entirely foolish for a girl who has no fortune.” Schivvers's mouth had grown thin, pressed so tight the skin around his lips was pale. Perhaps the man with ice water in his veins instead of blood had lost the ability to stay cool in the face of any confrontation or danger.

Alan was exhausted already with couching his words in polite terms. He wanted to demand and order, not skirt the issue around like a lawyer, but bluster would get him nowhere. He took a moment to sip from his cup of tea. The brew was strong but already cooling from sitting too long in the thin china cup. It was too soon to offer a bribe of money. That would be a last resort, as he guessed Schivvers would not be inspired to give up his trophy for gold.

“I can see you are committed to caring for Ann, but as I've driven such a long way, might I have a chance to meet the girl and talk with her? I would like to offer my condolences on her parents' deaths and tell her that, as his commanding officer, I can testify her father was a brave soldier.”

There was no way Schivvers could deny this basic and quite proper request—unless the child was in such a state that she wasn't fit to be seen.

But Schivvers didn't hesitate. “Certainly. I will send for the dear girl right now.”

He rang a bell, summoning the butler, and sent the man to fetch Ann. “Tell her she may appear in her morning dress; there's no need to change her frock for our visitor.”

Alan agreed. He didn't want to wait here with Schivvers while the girl prepared for company. The sooner he could meet her and assess her condition, the better.

“How is your leg?” Schivvers changed the subject as they waited in awkward silence for Annie. “Has it healed properly?”

“It was a slow process, but it's completely healed now.”
No thanks to you, who would've sawed it off in a blink if I hadn't been conscious to stop you.

“That's good.” The surgeon nodded sagely. “There are too many who've come back from the war with injuries that will never heal. Not only physical, but maladies of the mind and spirit. A battlefield was certainly no place for a child, and I'm glad Ann has recovered somewhat from the horrors she witnessed there.”

Alan nodded. There was no way he could disagree. Again the idea shot through his mind that maybe he mistrusted Schivvers for personal reasons—such as nearly losing a leg to him for no good medical reason—when perhaps the man had no evil intentions toward little Major at all.

Then the door opened, the girl walked into the room, and his doubts about the need to get her out of this house fled. Her hair and clothing were impeccably tidy and clean. She looked taller than he remembered her. Thin, but not unnaturally so. Yet as Jem had said, the girl's eyes and posture told another story. Her expression was one Alan had seen on callow soldiers facing their first artillery barrage—tense, drawn, and hopeless. This girl, who had worked beside her mother cleansing wounds and wrapping bandages, had seen plenty of carnage. She'd acted fearless then. She seemed terrified now.

“Ann, come in and greet Captain Watleigh.”

When Schivvers addressed her, she flinched. She dropped a careful curtsy and bowed her head. “Good day, Captain Watleigh.”

“Do you remember me, Major?” Alan used the fond nickname to try to reach through the sheen of fear and touch the girl. “I was your father's superior officer. Charlie Cutler was a good man.”

She lifted her head, and her gaze met his, this time as if she truly saw him. “Yes, Captain Watleigh, I remember you.”

“I was so sorry to learn about your mother's death. She was a brave and virtuous woman who did great work for the army. She will be sorely missed.”

Ann inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment, but her great gray eyes glanced at Schivvers, checking for his approval. The girl was like a beaten dog living in fear of its master. Did Schivvers beat her, Alan wondered, or were there worse torments he inflicted on her—ones that left no visible marks, but that scarred her soul?

“You were a great help to your mother,” Alan continued. “And to all of us. You should be proud of your work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He noticed her lower-class accent was gone, replaced by the precise, upper-crust pronunciation Schivvers had taught her.

“Have you a governess, Annie? You must be nearly eleven now, am I correct?”

“Near twelve, sir. We're going—” She cut another glance at Schivvers, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. “We're going to London, sir, where Mr. Schivvers will hire a governess for me. Mr. Schivvers takes great care of me. He provides everything I need.”

The last two sentences sounded as if said by rote, like a child reciting catechism she didn't really believe.

“I'm glad to hear that, Annie,” Alan said, once again reminding her of her old life by using the less-formal name. “I wonder if Mr. Schivvers could be persuaded to allow you to accompany me for tea at a nearby shop.”

“It's raining quite heavily, Sir Alan. I can't have Ann catching her death. Perhaps another time when we're in London it could be arranged. Maybe Sergeant Badgeman would care to see her there as well.”

Again, there was no way Alan could argue. It
was
raining, and Schivvers had very graciously given consent to see the girl again. Nothing wrong here at all, except that Major was begging Alan with her eyes, and her body was on the verge of shivering.

“It's nearly time for you to leave, sir. I would not wish to detain you.” Schivvers rang the bell, and when the butler appeared, he said, “Send Sir Alan's servant up.”

Damn. Alan suddenly felt uneasy.

“Say your good-byes, Ann,” Schivvers instructed. “Captain Watleigh must be on his way now. Oh, I forget, we must call him Sir Alan. He left the military life behind.”

Once more the girl curtsied with perfect form. “Good-bye, Sir Alan.”

Schivvers stood and walked to her. She was absolutely still, and he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Good God, his fingers tightened so that the skin around his nails went white. The girl didn't flinch. Her back went straighter. Alan wanted to shout, tell him to stop, but he held back in case he'd create more trouble for Ann.