When Tempting a Rogue (15 page)

A small lump of dread landed in her belly. It was the same feeling she always had when she thought of her family. “We’re not very close.”

Obviously, he sensed that she didn’t want to talk about it, because he didn’t press. They made it up the stairs unscathed, and when they got to the top, she saw the beautiful crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling over the first-floor foyer. It would look so amazing when it was lit.

“It’s lovely,” she announced breathlessly. “I adore it.”

“I thought you might,” Trystan replied with a slightly smug expression. “Given the ladders, I would say the boys are either polishing or repositioning it, so be careful where you stand. I need to ask Gordon when it will be convenient to have the carpet delivered. I’ll be right back.”

Vienne smiled. “I’m quite capable of entertaining myself in your absence.”

He flashed that charming grin again and walked away. Oddly enough, Vienne actually found herself missing his presence. What foolishness. Cursing herself, she walked over to one of the ladders. It was tempting to climb up and take a closer look.

“Pardon me,” she called to a small group of men in an adjoining room. “Would one of you mind holding the ladder for me?”

They all volunteered, of course, but she chose the one—she couldn’t remember his name—who had told her about his wife and children. He was a devoted husband and father, so she felt reasonably safe that he wouldn’t try to see up her skirts.

“We secured these ladders last evening, Madame La Rieux,” he informed her as she started to climb. “They’re tied up to posts with wire so they won’t fall.”

“Good to know,” she replied, her heart beating a little faster with every increase in height. She wasn’t afraid; rather, she was somewhat eager. She felt very daring climbing up this high to inspect a chandelier. She’d wager none of Trystan’s little washed-out debutantes had ever done such a thing.

Near the top she stopped and turned her torso so that she might get a better look at the crystal-and-brass monstrosity. It was even more impressive up close.

The ladder wavered a little as she twisted around, and she was just about to ask the man to hold it still when she heard a slight twanging sound followed by the distinctive sound of metal being pulled from wood and a loose wire striking wood.

She whirled around, but it was too late, the ladder had already pulled away from the wall. She tried to reach for the wall, a molding, or the window ledge, but the ladder continued to move despite her leaning in the opposite direction. Below her she heard the workman give a shout.

She tried to climb down, but the ladder was simply too unsteady. For a second she stood straight—like a stilt walker, and then the ladder tipped back. She slid down, desperately trying to keep from falling, and then she was falling back through the air, riding the ladder all the way to the polished wood floor. She couldn’t stop it anymore than she could the scream that tore from her throat.

Vienne heard Trystan yell her name as she hurtled toward the floor. She hit with a thud that shook every inch of her body. Her head hit a fraction of a second later.

And then everything went black.

Chapter 9

T
rystan ran to Vienne, but he wasn’t fast enough. He could only watch helplessly as the ladder she was on crashed to the floor, taking her with it. Everyone rushed to her, but he was the first.

He fell to his knees beside her, shoving the ladder out of his way. The first thing he did was check her throat for a pulse. It was there but felt weak against his trembling fingers. She had a pulse and was breathing—that was good. But there was blood seeping from beneath her head. And though he knew that even the slightest head wound could bleed like mad, his heart damned near stopped at the sight of it.

“Fetch a surgeon,” he commanded. “Now!”

Two of the workmen raced off. “They’re familiar with this area, sir,” Gordon told him, his face white behind his bushy ginger moustache. “They’ll bring back the best.”

Trystan could only nod in response. He hated leaving Vienne on the floor like this, but he was afraid to move her in case she was injured internally. He hated feeling useless, so he did what he could: checked for broken bones, and thankfully found nothing. Then he removed his coat and covered her with it. After that there was nothing he could do but sit beside her and hold her hand.

Silently, he prayed for her to wake up, but either God wasn’t listening or it was simply out of His control.

Trystan thought her indestructible. She was so resolute and strong. He’d never known her to have so much as a sniffle—and now, here she was, sprawled on the hard floor at his knees like some broken china doll.

Blinking back the hot wetness that threatened to spill from his eyes, he adjusted her skirts so her ankles were covered. She would no doubt laugh at his concern for her modesty, but it seemed wrong to leave them exposed.

How long Trystan knelt there, holding her hand and praying, he didn’t know. Vienne began to stir when the workmen arrived with the surgeon. Trystan shushed her when she tried to speak, and demanded that she lie still and let the man examine her. He hovered nearby, waiting again.

“I do not suspect any internal harm has been done,” the surgeon said finally, rising to his feet after examining Vienne and wrapping gauze around her head to staunch the blood flowing from her wound. “She has taken a fairly good blow to the head and is concussed; she will be in quite a lot of pain for the next few days, but otherwise she seems perfectly fit. A lucky lady indeed.”

“I told you I was fine,” Vienne said, voice weak as she stared up at Trystan. “Now, help me up. We have much to do.”

“All you have to do is go home,” he informed her, and the surgeon agreed that she should rest—also that someone should stay with her and keep her awake. Concussions were apparently tricky things.

“But—” she protested.

“But nothing,” Trystan cut her off. “I’m taking you back to Saint’s Row and I’m going to send word to both Sadie and Miss Ferrars. Surely one of them can come stay with you.”

She fought him, of course, but he turned a deaf ear and sent for his carriage. Then he picked her up and carried her to his vehicle as though she were a child. Vienne’s cheeks were pink as they descended the stairs.

“Trystan, put me down. This is most improper.”

“Look at you, caring about what’s proper.”

“People will talk.”

“Yes, about the fact that you could have been killed.” The thought had put a chill in his bones that was there even now.

Her eyes widened. “You do not believe this was an accident, do you?”

“We’ll talk about it once you’ve rested.”

“We will discuss it now,” she insisted. “Tell me what you suspect.”

Stubborn wench.
He glanced at her as he tried to concentrate on reaching the bottom of the stairs without his arms or weakened knees giving out. Vienne was not a plump woman, but she was fit and wearing at least twenty pounds of gown and undergarments. And she had given him quite a scare.

“I find it odd that the workmen secured that ladder only to have it fall when you climbed it.”

“Do you think someone deliberately tampered with it?”

“I do. Though I do not believe you were the intended target. I believe the same fate would have awaited anyone who used the ladder.”

She closed her eyes, alarming him for a split second before she opened them again. “Trystan, what are we going to do? This cannot continue.”

“Let me worry about that right now. You concentrate on healing.” As soon as he was certain she was tucked safely in bed, he was going to pay a visit to Scotland Yard. Vienne was right, this mischief could not continue. He wanted nothing more than to catch the bastard, or bastards, responsible so he could personally have a word—with his fists.

His carriage was out front, and he managed to get Vienne into it without drawing attention. Trystan held her the entire ride to Saint’s Row, chatting away and asking questions to make sure she stayed alert.

“You’re fussing over me like a nursemaid,” she grumbled. “I told you, you irritating Englishman, I’m fine.”

“Vienne,” he began calmly, though his nerves were as raw as a bad burn, “have you ever been kicked by a horse?”

She scowled at him. “No.”

“You’re going to feel like it by tomorrow morning. Like you’ve been kicked repeatedly. You’re going to need someone to help you do the most mundane things.” Then he added, “You’d better not attempt to come to the site tomorrow or I’ll personally truss you up and deliver you home.”

She made an exasperated sound. “Really, you are worse than a nursemaid. You’re an old woman.”

“Compliments. How delightful. Do be quiet, Vienne. The surgeon said you should be silent and still.”

“I think part of you enjoys lording over me.”

He put a finger to his lips.
“Ssssh.”
Her mouth tightened, but she did not say another word for the rest of the trip. She did, however, hold on to his hand, which was draped over her as she leaned into him.

As luck would have it, Sadie was at Saint’s Row when they arrived. Apparently she was doing an end-of-Season charity event that evening and she would be reading leaves. Her face turned pale when she saw Trystan walk in holding Vienne in his arms.

“They told me she’d been hurt,” she said, immediately directing him to Vienne’s private rooms.

“Would have been a lot worse if her head wasn’t so thick,” he joked as he carried his charge up the narrow stairs. Vienne wasn’t the only one who was going to feel it the next day. His biceps were going to despise him.

“
Mon Dieu
, I will be glad to see the backside of you,” Vienne lamented.

Trystan smiled at her. “You’ve always admired my backside.”

Ahead of him he heard Sadie snicker as Vienne flushed and glared at him. Personally, he was just so damned happy she was all right, he wouldn’t care if she hit him.

He followed Sadie into Vienne’s apartments, noticing that the tranquil sage color suited her perfectly. Vienne could be subtle, but she was also very bold and knew exactly how to balance the two when it came to her club, her wardrobe, and personal space. So, while she came across as strong, she wasn’t intimidating or obnoxious.

Trystan placed her on the large bed. His mind went back in time, remembering how many times he had done this during their affair. He used to sweep her up into his arms and carry her to bed all the time. She liked it.

His gaze locked with hers, and he knew she was thinking of those times as well. For a moment they simply stared at one another, lost in the shared past.

Sadie cleared her throat, tearing Trystan back to the present. He pulled his arms from beneath Vienne and addressed her friend. “She’s going to start stiffening up soon, so she’ll need someone here regularly to help her with things. By this evening, you should be able to give her something for the pain.” Then to Vienne, “You do what you’re told. I’ll be by later to check in.”

She arched a brow, but didn’t argue. Satisfied that she was in good hands, he turned to leave.

“Trystan?”

At the threshold, he glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Vienne smiled at him. “Thank you.”

His heart gave a queer twist. “You’re welcome.”

A
s much as she hated to admit it, Trystan was right. That night Vienne was so sore and stiff she could scarcely move, and she knew it would be worse the next morning. There was nothing to be done for it, however. She had to get up and take herself downstairs. Tonight was a charity gathering at the club—she had to be there to greet her guests, and persuade them to dig deep in their purses for a good cause.

“Vienne, lie down,” Sadie commanded. “Your club is in good hands.”

“There are no hands more adept than mine at running this place.”

Her friend placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder. “Trystan has everything under control. Between him and I and Indara, we are more than capable of making certain this evening is a success.”

Trystan
. He was perhaps the only person whose name could physically soothe her. If he was taking care of things, then the club really was in good hands, especially if Sadie helped him. Sadie had been with her long enough and had been present at enough of these events to make certain everything was done properly—but she also had to operate her tea-leaf reading booth, and Indara was her assistant. That left Trystan alone out on the floor.

“He doesn’t know who the ones with deep pockets are,” she insisted, trying to sit up once more. Damn her soft bed all to hell. It was like trying to right oneself in the center of a cloud.

Sadie pushed her back down—it didn’t take much as she hadn’t gotten very far. “He got a thousand out of Lord Farqward.”

A thousand out of tightfisted Farqward?
Impossible!

“And he raised just a little more than that by himself.”

A sense of dread washed over her. “More? What did he do?”

Sadie hesitated, then smiled. “He auctioned himself off: dinner with him in private rooms at the Barrington, and an evening at the theater. It went over so well that he’s trying to round up other bachelors to do the same. I believe Lord Archer was about to offer himself as an artist’s model in the classical style.”

Even through her shock, she had to smile at that. “Lord Archer will do anything for an excuse to disrobe. It seems the club is just fine without me, then.” A wave of self-pity washed over her. Was there nothing Trystan Kane could not do, and do better than she?

Sadie’s smile turned sympathetic. “Not quite, my friend. Simply everyone has inquired after you, even Bertie.”

That warmed her a little. “How sweet of the Prince of Wales. Is Mrs. Langtry with him?”

“She sends her regards as well.”

“You had better get back down there,” she suggested. “I’m certain your adoring public will soon mutiny if they do not soon have their tea leaves read.”

Her dear friend looked torn. “Are you certain you do not need anything?”

Vienne nodded, feeling very well loved at that moment, and grateful for it. “I am fine, and I have this little bell I can ring if I need anything. I do have a maid, you know.”

Sadie smiled and kissed her on the forehead, just as a mother might. “I’ll check in on you again later.”

As soon as she was gone, Vienne engaged in the struggle to sit up once more. This time she managed, though it took a lot of swearing and strength she didn’t know she had to accomplish it. And, dear God, it
hurt
!

Slowly, she slipped her legs over the side of the bed and rose gingerly—oh, so gingerly—to her feet. She hobbled to the vanity, using the bed and other furniture for support. The hem of the nightgown Sadie had helped her into brushed against the top of her feet as she walked bent over like an old woman.

At the mirror she stopped and turned, craning her head over her shoulder as she lowered the top of the gown to expose her back. What she saw made her gasp.

There was very little of her back that was the color it should be. Most of her skin was varying shades of purple and magenta, so dark in spots she looked like an overripe plum. The sight, coupled with the pain, brought tears to her eyes.

She knew she was lucky to be alive, that it wasn’t as awful as it looked, but still . . . she looked terrible.

There was a knock on her door, and it opened before she could speak or completely cover herself once more. As luck would have it, it was Trystan. The color drained from his face when he saw her—and her back.

“Oh, Vienne. I’m so sorry.”

Her hand shook as she struggled with the neckline of her nightgown. The damn thing would not come back up.

“Easy,” he said as he walked toward her. “Let me help you.”

“I can do it.” She pulled harder—her battered body screaming in protest.

“For the love of God, woman. Stop!” Gentle hands took hold of hers. “I thought you might be hurting, so I brought you some of what my nanny called an old family recipe. Come, lie down and I’ll put some on you.” He gently tugged her toward the bed . . . and didn’t even try to peek down her sagging top.