The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (3 page)

“Never!” Foster
blustered. “I say we toss him out onto the street. Gentleman or
not, any man who tries to force himself on a lady deserves nothing
better.”

“Perhaps, but we have
no way of knowing if that’s what he intended and I won’t put an
unconscious, and possibly innocent...” His ferocious look made her
hesitate, “... maybe not so innocent… man on the street to be
preyed upon by vermin of any kind.”

“You’re too
kind-hearted, Missy.” He paused. Something had occurred to him.
“‘Sides, if ye summon help, that’ll cause talk.”

“I never thought of
that.” It was also a good reason for stopping Foster from using his
weapon. “Which is why you can’t shoot him. A second gunshot would
bring the authorities to our door for sure. We’re lucky no one has
come to inquire already.”

“This is London,
Missy,” Foster sniffed disdainfully, “the big city. No one cares
what happens to his neighbors.” In a doleful voice, he added, “a
man could die and no one would help.”

He leaned the gun
against the wall and began to remove the intruder’s great coat.

Tally breathed more
freely and bent to help him. Once they had it off, Foster leaned down
to pull an evil-looking knife from his boot to cut away the man’s
sleeve.

Shaking her head at how
prepared her retainer was, she said, “First we need to bandage the
wound to stop the blood from dripping all over the carpet. We can’t
afford to replace this beautiful Axminster carpet.”

Much to her butler’s
dismay, she helped him strip the man’s torso down to the skin.
While Foster went to get some cloths to use as bandages, Tally
remained on her knees beside the unconscious intruder. Her hand
hovered over his smooth, tanned skin, itching to sculpt it, to touch
it. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed when Foster
returned before she could give in to that impulse.

“I’ve been
thinking.” She stood and began walking purposefully toward the
door. “Why not just tie his shirt around the wound, for now, and
you can bandage it once we move him into the room across the hall, so
we don’t open it while carrying him there.”

“You want to put him
in a room!” Foster shouted, as she left to go light a lamp in the
other room. “If ye won’t throw him out,” he continued loudly,
“we can just lock him up in the coal cellar ‘til morning.”

“I’ll not be
responsible,” she called back, “for any man perishing of gangrene
because I shot him.” No matter who he was, she didn’t believe he
deserved such a fate.

Besides, she needed to
know why he’d broken in.

He didn’t look like
any thief she’d ever imagined and she was having a hard time
wrenching her eyes away from his striking features. Using her usual
frame of reference, she searched for some painting he made her think
of, but he resembled none other. Every time she glanced at him, her
artist’s eye was picturing him on canvas.

No, no ordinary crook
looked like this. Those black eyebrows and high cheek bones. Her gaze
slid down to view his muscled arms and thighs. His body reminded her
of one of Michelangelo’s “
Unfinished
Captives
”. How she longed to capture–

Heat flooded her face,
her whole body. Here she was wasting time admiring this … this
prowler!

“He’s too heavy for
us to carry.” She yanked a folded blanket from the foot of the bed.
“We’ll use this to pull him across the floor like I do with my
heavier canvases.” She placed the cover alongside him and they
rolled him onto it. “We’ll both stand here and, together, we
should be able to drag him across the hallway.” She indicated the
end of the blanket nearest to the door.

Before lifting the
blanket, she bent to straighten his head. “Goodness, there’s a
lump on his head the size of an egg! No wonder he hasn’t awakened.
He must have hit his head on something when he dived to avoid the
shot.” She glanced around and pointed at a huge, wooden tallboy.
“On the foot of the dresser, most likely.”

“Good! He got his
just desserts.” Foster was clearly not in a forgiving mood. “If
he dies, Missy, I’ll dig a hole in the backyard and bury him like
the scum he is.” Her loyal butler stood at the end of the blanket,
a fierce frown on his face. “But if he dares wake up, I have some
questions I want answered.”

Standing, she leaned
down to grasp the cover with both hands and they began tugging,
half-carrying, half-dragging the man’s motionless body toward the
door. They made it across the hall and managed to lift him onto the
bed in the guest room. By then, they were both gasping for air.

“Now, I’m almost
hoping he doesn’t die, Miss Tally, or we’ll have to carry his
body down to the back yard to bury.” Still breathing heavily,
Foster went to get a fire started in the fireplace. “Or p’raps
we’ll just heave him out the window.”

Tally pushed the
stranger’s hair back, away from his eyes. He had a nice face. He
must smile a lot. She stepped back.
What
was she thinking!
His unconsciousness had made her drop
her guard. She knew she should back further away, but was too
intrigued to do so.

She noted laugh
crinkles at the corner of his eyes and thought he might have a dimple
in his left cheek. Despite his rough appearance, his face had a
certain refinement to it, with his aquiline nose and high forehead.
Her gaze moved down lightly over his bristly chin. Hmm, not good. He
had a stubborn-looking chin. He wouldn’t be pleased to learn he’d
been shot by a woman.

“There,” Foster
grumbled, “now are ye satisfied you’ve made this here criminal
nice and comfie?” He slowly rose from his knees. The fire crackled
cheerfully, making the room seem warmer. “He won’t never be
comfortable again if I find out he was climbing in to harm you,
Missy. He’ll be in a cold cell or, better still, in a colder
grave.”

“Don’t say that! It
gives me the shivers.” She hated thinking of this fine-looking man
behind bars… or worse, dead. She still hoped this was all a
harmless mistake.

She cleaned his wound
and the man didn’t flinch. She’d done this often for her brothers
when they injured themselves while sculpting, and was fairly
proficient at it. Still, she’d never had to clean a gunshot wound
before, and certainly not one she herself had inflicted!

“Aw, it’s nothing
but a flesh wound. The ball only grazed him, Missy.” Foster seemed
disappointed it wasn’t worse. “Sure bled enough for such a
piddling injury.”

Now he was laying it on
a mite too thick. The ball had gone deep enough that the wound would
smart for quite awhile. Foster was just trying to make her feel
better.

She was thankful it
wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. She closed the bottle of iodine.
“There. That should do it.” She moved away to let Foster take her
place beside the intruder. “Now, you can bandage it.”

Watching Foster
expertly bandage the wound, she said, “I think we should give him
some laudanum.” For two purposes, she figured, though she only
mentioned one. “He’s going to have a very sore head … and
shoulder when he wakes.”

“Yeh. I ‘spose we
might tie him down, but a strong dose of opium should do the trick.
When my arthritis is acting up, it puts me right to sleep. If we give
him enough, it’ll be sure to knock him out for the night, in case
he wakes up and gets it in mind to kill us in our sleep.”

Ah… her second
reason. She might have known Foster would think of it too. It did
seem safer. Valiant though her dear protector was, he was no longer
young. He had a tendency to nod off and it took nothing short of a
cannon shot to rouse him.

“Look Missy, see what
I found in his pocket.”

“A watch?” She took
it from Foster. “Gold. An old family heirloom, do you think?” She
turned it over. “Maybe there’s a name on it.” She moved it into
the light and scanned the timepiece for identifying marks.

“Here.” She rubbed
the spot to see it better. “It’s almost worn off... I think I see
an ‘R’... then an ‘e’... not sure about this next one... and
the last one looks like a ‘d’. I suppose it must be ‘Reed’. I
can’t think of any other man’s name with those letters, can you?”
She looked up for his response, but he simply shrugged. “I’m not
sure if the family name starts with a ‘G’ or not. Next, may be an
‘o’ or an ‘a’, then a space where the letter is gone,
followed by a ‘d’ and… is that an ‘n’? It could be
‘Gordon’, I suppose. Common enough name.” She looked over at
Foster. “Do you recognize the name Reed Gordon?”

“No, but if he’s a
burglar, then it need not be his real name. He might have stolen the
watch from somebody else.”

He had a point, but
somehow, she was not so sure the intruder was a thief. But better
that than the other. She fervently hoped he hadn’t been coming in
to harm her. She didn’t want to think such bad thoughts about him.

“Gordon?” She
wished she’d paid more attention to Great Aunt Ida, who had tried
to instill in her the importance of learning ton names. It sounded
like a name she should know something about.

Gazing down into the
intruder’s attractive, yet eerily still face, she said, “If Mr.
Gordon…” she ignored Foster’s grunt at her use of the name, but
she was determined to hold onto the possibility of the intruder being
innocent of thieving—or worse! “hasn’t recovered his senses by
tomorrow midday, we will have to find a physician.” She heard her
own reluctance in every word.

“And what d’ye
think he’ll do to bring this piece of slime back? No doubt, he’ll
insist on bleeding the blighter, and any one can see he’s already
lost enough blood.”

She bit back a laugh.
Foster was having trouble making up his mind whether to kill the man
or pity him. She sympathized with his dilemma. Still, they couldn’t
keep an unconscious man here indefinitely.

“The physician is
going to wonder who the man is and why he’s been shot, Missy. What
are you going to tell him?”

A good question. She
hadn’t considered how it would appear to others. “The main
problem is the bump on his head. The gunshot wound bled a lot, but
really only grazed his skin.” She repeated his comforting words.
“We’ve done all any body can do for it, haven’t we?”

He nodded.

“So then, we don’t
have to mention it, do we?” It was just starting to occur to her
the muddle she was involved in now. She was unmarried and alone.
Keeping this man here overnight was highly improper.

“We’ll both be in
trouble if the doc discovers it. He might tell the authorities. And
if it ever gets out that there’s a man, a stranger, staying here,
suffering from a gunshot wound, it’ll be the ruin of ye, Miss
Tally.” He glared down at the unconscious man. “When he comes to,
if
he comes to, I’m
going to have a talk with this so-called gentleman. I want to know if
he intended to ravish you, kill you, or if he simply amuses himself
by climbing into young ladies’ rooms and ruining their good names!”

“I’m pretty sure he
won’t be trying that again.” She allowed herself a smug smile.

“No sir! Heh heh…”
Foster slapped his thigh and wheezed an evil laugh. His eyes leaked
tears of mirth. “Bet he never thought he’d get shot, did he?”
Then he sobered up. “I’ll make certain he understands that if he
ever does anything to harm you or any other lady, his life won’t be
worth living.”

She struggled not to
smile. The intruder was almost six-foot tall and looked quite strong.
How did the old dear think he’d get the upper hand?

That darn blunderbuss,
she supposed. She should hide it until their uninvited visitor was
safely away. Still… the man might be dangerous. Likely was, in
fact.
Idiot
, she
lamented her soft heart.
He’s
just climbed in your bedroom window! Of course he’s dangerous!

“I’ll take the
first watch, Miss Tally. You go get some sleep.”

“Fine. But there’s
no need for you to stay up here.” She didn’t tell him she planned
on spending what was left of the night keeping watch herself. As if
she could sleep knowing a strange man, an interloper, was in the
house!

Or, worse, having him
die from loss of blood while she slept!

“What good am I
downstairs?” Foster complained.

Her long-suffering,
loyal ally could sometimes become a mite cantankerous. She’d have
to convince him it would be safer that way.

“What if he has
accomplices and, when he fails to come out, they decide to come in to
look for him.” She hated to worry her devoted servant like that,
but she knew he’d get more sleep dozing in that armchair he’d
rigged up in the front hall, than up here on a straight-backed,
wooden chair.

He grimaced and
shrugged, showing he didn’t believe her excuse but was not going to
argue the point, and started down the stairs. He called back up to
her. “Mark my words, Miss Tally, our captive there is going to
cause us heaps of trouble afore this is through.”

Tally wished she
weren’t so inclined to agree with him.

* * *

When she left the guest
room a short time later, the night sky was being nudged aside by
daylight’s first blush. If only she could escape upstairs to her
studio to capture the subtlety of the shifting colors. The soft pinks
and oranges, the pale yellow…

Not this morning,
Tally. She carried on into her room.

With a weary sigh, she
grabbed her warm shawl and put it on over her dressing gown. She
picked up her sketching paper and charcoal stick from the desk, and
made her way back to the guest room across the hall.

She had intended
spending the time until full sunrise, sketching the unconscious
burglar. She always drew when ideas came to her at night, so though
the light was poor, she should be able to sketch a decent likeness of
the man, and later, in daylight, she’d perfect it.