The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (17 page)

“Ferry!” he boomed, as he looked down at his naked body. The door opened swiftly.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“
Cold
water,” Gideon bit out.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The door closed and Gideon fell back to the bed.

Moments later, Ferry returned with an ewer of cold water that he left next to the basin. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” he asked.

“My brother.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“My brother is to be drawn and quartered. Please inform him directly.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Ferry closed the door and went down to the ground floor to notify Lord Trumbull of his pending execution.

Perry laughed heartily at the news.

“That is fantastic! I must have interrupted him with a woman,” he pondered aloud, glancing at Ferry.

Ferry gave no quarter.

Perry threw his head back and laughed again.

Ferry left the younger man to his musings and returned to attend His Grace.

He stood outside the door until he heard his name. Roxleigh sat with a warm towel over his face to soften his night beard. “Lord Trumbull is in the breakfast room,” Ferry said as he walked to the dresser and prepared the spicy soap His Grace used for his shave. “He is aware of the sentence and appears to look forward to the execution.”

“He would,” Gideon said curtly.

Francine tossed in her dream, the sheets wrapped around her ankles and her nightgown twisted around her thighs. She gasped and bolted upright in the bed, almost slipping off to the floor in the tangled sheets.

Mrs. Weston woke with a start. “Miss Francine, are you all right?” she asked, tottering over to her.

Francine nodded, her face flushing wildly.

“Oh miss, have you taken a chill? You are a might bit flushed. Let me fetch some cool water.”

Francine nodded and smiled.

As Mrs. Weston turned around, Francine’s hands fluttered to her face, fanning herself to try to cool her heated skin.
Where had that dream come from?
She colored deeper at the thought of it, of him, and started kicking at the sheets that bound her ankles. She felt a tightness in her belly.

The dream she woke from had been so real she couldn’t bear to try to stand, so she lay back against the pillows and waited for the feelings to subside. Instead of waning they only grew in intensity, her heart racing and her breathing quickening as her mind wandered.

Mrs. Weston brought the cool water and Francine drank deeply, then splashed some on her face and sighed as the heat caused it to evaporate. She set the glass down on the stand next to the bed and willed her body to calm.

Mrs. Weston looked at her with concerned eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right, miss?”

Francine nodded.

“I’ll ready a nice calming bath, how does that sound?”

Francine nodded again. She had a feeling that Mrs. Weston could have recommended she walk on burning cinders and she would have nodded still. But a bath did sound nice, and she hoped it would help calm the nerves that seemed to be beyond frayed. She lay there pondering her interrupted dream as Mrs. Weston fussed about.

Sanders met Gideon at the base of the stairs. “We have prepared for your swift departure, Your Grace,” he said.

“Have you now? And what, pray tell, compelled you to make such arrangements?”

“Lord Trumbull instructed as such,” Sanders replied.

Gideon stood on the bottom step of the staircase, giving him the ominous position of looking down on Sanders with a cold eye. “So in truth, nothing has been prepared.”

“Quite, Your Grace, in truth,” the butler answered.

“Good man.” Gideon went to greet his brother.

“I hear I’m departing swiftly,” Gideon said when he entered the breakfast room.

“I hear I’m to be drawn and quartered,” Perry countered.

“Touché.”

“Yes, quite. However, you
are
going to depart rather quickly. I’ve no doubt we can tie up any business you may have, with haste, so you can relax through the weekend, attend a soirée, and be off at first light Tuesday.” Perry smiled. “We must get you back to this girl,” he said, leaning forward.

“Francine,” Gideon said with a swift glance. “What soirée?” he then added gruffly.

“Oh, you caught that, did you? Yes— Well, it’s more of a minor presage to the Season at the estate of the Earl of Digby.”

“Digby. They have a town house here on the square, do they not?”

“Yes. But the ball will be held at the Grand Prout Estate, just east of London,” Perry said.

“Oh, I see. And now it’s a ball. What happened to soirée?” Gideon grumbled.

“Well, you know the English. They only like to mimic the French for so long, and soirées have become quite blasé.” Perry grinned.

“In a matter of moments, in fact,” Gideon replied flatly.

“As well, our cousins will be in attendance, saving us the rounds. Bad enough
I
wasn’t notified. If they were to learn of your objectionable handling of this visit, there would be no end to the discourse.”

“Cousins.” Gideon grunted. “How many of them?”

“Insofar as I can see, all of them.”

Gideon sighed heavily. “I suppose this is to become a production, ably managed by your hand.”

Perry cocked an eyebrow and nodded with a grin. “At any rate, we should break our fast and be on our way. I sent ahead to the solicitor, and you are expected precisely at eight.”

“You are handling me, Perry. I don’t like to be handled.” Gideon’s voice was low and steady.

“Am I? I hadn’t realized.” His brother gave an innocent lift of his shoulders. “I had only hoped to be accommodating and get you back where you belong, out in the middle of nowhere.”

Gideon smiled and sat at the head of the table, motioning to the footmen to serve breakfast. This side of his younger brother was intriguing and somewhat amusing, as always. He might have to see what kind of trouble Perry led him to.

Meggie woke early to see Lilly. She’d arrived late the night before, but didn’t want to disturb what rest she thought her sister might be getting. She’d been exhausted from the trip and went straight to bed, deciding she would visit her at first light. She dressed quickly and went to Lilly’s room where nothing—not the letter, which she had tried to read countless times on the way home, nor any spoken words, nor anything else--could have prepared her for what she saw.

The thin light filtered through the drapes by the bed, illuminating Dr. Walcott as he hunched over Lilly’s feet, lifting and checking and rubbing and rewrapping the long strips of linen. He looked as haggard as Meggie felt.

Her sister was as still as the grave while he ministered. He straightened, then slowly pulled a sheet up to her chin, being very careful not to drag it across her skin but to let it gently waft down over her, soft as a feather.

He turned toward Meggie and she knew she must be a sight, standing in the doorway, pale as a ghost, streams of tears pouring down her cheeks, her hands tied in white and red knots of tension.

He sighed and walked to her, pulling her into the hallway and closing the door quietly. “Meggie, I am so sorry you have to see this.”

“How is she? Will she be all right?”

“I don’t know anything more than I wrote in the letter. There isn’t much else we can do for her. I rewrap her bandages every day, making sure her blood is not poisoned and her skin is not becoming taut to where it would crack when she moves.”

“It’s no matter,” she said, straightening her spine and looking him square in the eyes. “I’ll see to it. Just tell me what need be done. Send the other women home. She is my sister and I will tend her.”  

“Of course,” he replied. He gave her explicit instructions as to how to administer both the laudanum and a beef broth to prevent Lilly from wasting away, as well as how to lean her body up and move her about so she wouldn’t get pressure sores. It took almost an hour to go over all the instructions.

Meggie nodded, and as she started to walk into the room to attend to Lilly he asked about Francine. “She is well, sir. She is up and about—the dressmaker came yesterday, or was it the day before? I’m not sure, but she left her with a few samples, so Miss Francine can get about. Mrs. Weston stays with her at all times, and she still doesn’t speak. Mrs. Weston has followed your directions carefully.”

Dr. Walcott frowned. “Is she acting— Is she behaving normally? I mean, she isn’t doing anything dangerous, or terribly unsound?”

Meggie thought for a moment about the night Francine ran off to the garden, and then about her care and attention when Meggie received the letter about Lilly. “She’s not perfect, sir, but she doesn’t seem injured beyond her voice being done.”

“I should go check on her, but I fear I can’t leave Lilly right now,” Dr. Walcott said.

Meggie nodded. “His Grace was called to London. Mrs. Weston bid me let you know so you would understand why he hasn’t come here. He doesn’t yet know the injured girl was Lilly, and he’s not aware of the extent.” She waved her hand toward the bedroom where her sister was.

“I will be sure to send an account to him, and to Mrs. Weston, so she will not worry unnecessarily. I will take my leave. Remember, if anything changes, you are to wake me. No exceptions,” he said. “Thank you, Meggie.”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Walcott. I will.”

“His Grace, Gideon Trumbull, Duke of Roxleigh,” the assistant announced as he opened the door to the solicitor’s office. Perry entered behind Gideon and smiled at the assistant, who then said, with slightly less effect, “And Lord Peregrine Trumbull, Viscount Roxleigh.”

Perry rubbed his chin with his thumb and followed his brother over to the stately desk as the man behind it stood in deference to them.
Well, to the duke, anyway
, he thought wryly.

“Please, sit,” said the small bespectacled man, motioning to the chairs on the opposite side. “To what do I owe the honor?”  

“A terrible bit of honor floating around these days,” Perry said under his breath as the brothers exchanged humored glances.

“Let’s get on with this,” Gideon replied sternly.

“Yes, let us.”

“I will be signing over the title and management papers for Westcreek Park to the viscountcy,” Gideon said without preamble. “I understand you have the documents.”  

Perry stared. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

Gideon turned to the solicitor. “A moment, if you please?”

“Of course,” he replied, standing to leave his office.

“What the devil are you up to, Gideon? I do not fancy a jest,” Perry said once the door closed.

“This is no jest. It’s time you overtook management of the estate—”

“I do not need an estate to hold a courtesy title,” Perry interrupted sorely.

“I am aware of that, but you are not my employee and should not be treated as such. I discussed it with Father before he passed. He filed the original documents requesting the severance of Westcreek from the entailed properties, with transference to the esteemed viscountcy.” He paused. “Just as he petitioned that the title pass to you, instead of me.”