A Certain Want of Reason (12 page)

For though he might blame Geoffrey, she was the one at fault.

* * * * *

Edmund forgot, for a time, that he professed to be the sultan of someplace or other. When the odd young man drew a dagger, the whole charade had become rather more serious, since he had nothing more lethal to defend himself with than a bamboo pole.

Which had shown itself to be a poor weapon indeed.

He cursed himself for relying on instinct, parrying with the pole as if he held a sword, rather than his intellect, which would have instructed him to do something a little more effective. Like run.

Men were talking all around at a furious rate—talking at him, over him, to each other. But not to him.

His leg hurt like hell.

He was propped up only a little, so that he could not really see his leg too well. Something dug against his shoulder blades.

He did not recognize any of the gentlemen around him, and his adversary was nowhere in sight. Now and again, he could hear his voice crying out with exuberance. “I got him. Did you see that? Me! I captured Redcloak!”

Why was that gawky young man calling him “Redcloak”?

“I’m the sultan,” Edmund finally protested, just to see if anyone would listen. He tried to load his voice with indignation, but the sound came out a hoarse, mumbled growl instead.

“You’ll have to take him too.”

“He needs a doctor, first, though.”

Someone moved his leg.

“Ow.” Edmund slapped at the offender.

“You are right. He will need a surgeon.”

“Edmund!” His mother’s voice cut through the fog of unfamiliar voices. He had slumped down so far, however, that he could not see her. He tried to scoot himself back upright, but the pain in his leg caused him to abandon the effort immediately.

“Do not try to move,” someone above him said. “You’re making it bleed more.”

“This man is my son,” his mother announced imperiously. “Of course you will let me see him.”

Edmund tried to reach out to reassure his mother, but his arm now seemed too heavy to raise. He offered a smile instead, hoping it bore none of the weakness he felt.

His mother’s face, so stoic as she approached through the crowd of men around him, now collapsed into an expression of pain and sadness far more intense than anything
he
had ever felt in his life. He never intended to cause her such pain. Was it too late to tell her the—

“I’ve sent for a doctor, Edmund. Then we shall take you home.”

“Do you think that wise, madam?” one of the gentleman in attendance asked. “After…” He pointed to the turban lying forgotten on the stage floor.

“I do not believe I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, young man,” Lady Rutherford answered with a look that would melt iron at a hundred paces. “You’ll forgive me then if I save that
joy
for another occasion?” She turned back to Edmund. “As I said, as soon as your wound has been tended, I shall take you home.”

He tried to answer, but his mouth seemed too dry to form words. Or his tongue was too thick and heavy to move. He could only offer a brief smile.

“Madam?” The gentleman, cut so sharply just a minute ago, appeared reluctant to attempt counsel now. Nevertheless, he pressed on. “Your, ah, slippers, Madam.”

Mrs. Rutherford looked down to see a red stain spread up the side of her light gray kid slippers. “One of you, tell that doctor to hurry!” She bent down, then fell to her knees and cradled Edmund’s head in her arms. “They assured me it was just a flesh wound,” she said in a hoarse whisper, “and yet you look so pale. So very pale.”

He wanted to tell her not to worry, not to cry, but his voice would not answer. Above her head, he could see the face of an angel with big, dark, sorrowful eyes framed by waves of dark hair. Angels should never look so sad.

The vision faded. Now all he could see was a pattern on fabric, the colors gradually fading as the room grew darker. It must be getting late. He should say something about leaving. It was time for them to leave.

But it was apparently too late. The colors faded into blackness, and in another instant, he let go, wishing he could see the angel one last time. The roar of voices and the sound of his mother’s quiet sobs ebbed into an all-encompassing silence.

* * * * *

Lucia felt a warm arm across her shoulder—Eugenie had come up next to her and was offering words of comfort.

“Do not fret, Lucia. Everything will be fine.” She tried to guide Lucia toward the stairs.

Lucia pulled away, turning back so she could see. More men had come onto the stage now, gathered in two throngs, presumably one around each of the two combatants, though she could no longer see either of them.

“There, there, dear.” Mrs. Bayles handed her a handkerchief.

Lucia was not aware that she stood in need of a handkerchief, or even that she had been crying. But she pressed the cloth to her face anyway. It was soaked through in an instant.

“Mr. Bayles will see to your brother. Come away, now.” Mrs. Bayles and Eugenie succeeded in turning Lucia back toward the stairs, and they had progressed several paces toward them before Lucia froze in place.

Helen was coming up the stairs. Had she seen the fight? What would she do when she saw the men take Geoffrey away? For they would surely take Geoffrey away somewhere. Remembering Helen’s earlier shrieks at the sight of the road from the carriage window, Lucia could not begin to imagine the hideous cacophony her sister would unleash at the sight of the commotion on the stage.

Helen kept her eyes focused down as she crossed over toward Lucia. Then she looked up. “Is that Geoffrey over there?”

Lucia nodded, not trusting words.

Helen watched the men for a moment. The gestures and raised voices made it apparent that they were arguing. Then she turned her gaze to the splintered pole lying on the stage. “Somebody’s going to have to clean that up soon. Before it congeals.” She pointed to an uneven pool of blood on the stage.

Lucia fought off a wave of nausea.

Eugenie cringed. “Please, ladies. I think we should leave now.”

“Geoffrey really has gotten into it this time, hasn’t he?” Helen asked.

“I am afraid so.” Lucia sniffed.

“But Mr. Bayles will take care of him, will he not?” Helen nodded toward him.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Can we leave, then?”

“Yes, we can leave.” Lucia sighed.
But we cannot go home.

Chapter Eleven

Lucia was in no mood to eat breakfast the next morning. But she longed for the warmth of company, for the chatter of friends to chase away the gloom that had settled into her soul. She dressed carelessly, knowing that perhaps they might be able to get out to see Geoffrey but not worried as to whether her appearance met the mark.

“Good morning,” she said softly to the company assembled around the breakfast table.

“Lucia!” Eugenie beckoned her toward the empty chair next to her.

“Miss Wright, so good to see you.” Mrs. Bayles smiled kindly. “I was about to have Peggy bring up a tray, since I’d rather imagined you would need to rest this morning.”

“I have rested, thank you.” Lucia sat next to Eugenie. “As much as I was able,” she confided in a low voice.

“Mr. Bayles has gone out, but we may expect to hear back from him before the morning is through. Will you take some tea?” Mrs. Bayles asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good morning, dears.” Sophie sailed into the room like a colorful kite into a circle of rain clouds.

“You are infernally cheerful this morning,” Eugenie greeted her. “It’s hurting my eyes.”

Sophie picked up a plate from the sideboard and began making her selections from the buffet. “I had a splendid time at the Garland’s last evening. I’ve never laughed so much in all my life. We decided the same collection—all eight of us—will meet again next week.” She started over to the table. “I hope your evening at the opera was quite enjoyable?”

“In a word, no.” Eugenie indicated the open seat at the table with a halfhearted wave of her hand.

“What happened?” Sophie looked around at the sea of gloomy faces above the breakfast plates. Concern creased her brow as she sat down. “Oh, dear. Has somebody died? I do seem to be the last to hear these things.”

“No,” Eugenie sighed. “Nobody has died.”

“Yet,” Helen added helpfully.

“Not yet,” Eugenie corrected herself.

“What do you mean, ‘not yet’?” Sophie demanded. “Is someone gravely ill? I can cancel my plans for this afternoon if we need to visit…”

Eugenie held up her hand. “Yes, someone is ill, but it is no one of our actual acquaintance, so we will not need to pay any visits.”

“That is well, then.” Sophie sawed the corner off a slice of toast. “I am sorry to hear that anyone is ill on such a fine day.”

“It’s rainy and cold,” Helen announced. “Hardly fine by my definition.”

“Yes, well, I am equally sorry to hear that someone is ill on a rainy day. But, really, in London there must be scores—no, hundreds of ill people every day. I cannot very well go about gloomy on their behalf, can I? So why do you?”

“It is rather more than that, I’m afraid.” Eugenie glanced at Lucia before continuing. “It’s a most awkward situation, really, but I suppose I…
we
had better tell you before you hear of it elsewhere.”

Lucia nodded.

Sophie lowered her knife. “Tell me what?”

“The opera was the scene of some rather…unusual events last evening.” Eugenie paused as if unwilling to continue. She looked into her cup of chocolate.

“And?” Sophie prompted with her knife.

“Don’t do that,” Eugenie said crossly.

“Do what?”

“Do what you’re…with the…oh, just put the knife down, Sophie.”

Sophie looked at the implement and shrugged. “Very well. Now will you continue?”

“Yes. I don’t know where to begin, really.” Eugenie looked at Lucia.

“Lord Rutherford attended the opera last night,” Lucia prompted.

Sophie’s eyes widened. “Oh. Did he bite the conductor?”

“No.” Eugenie shook her head. “There was no animal behavior last night.”

“I beg to differ.” Helen looked up from her mutilated egg. “Geoffrey behaved quite like an animal.”

“Geoffrey?” Sophie’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. “What has he to do with it?”

“I shall—err,” Eugenie glanced at Lucia apologetically, “get to that in a moment. At the end of the performance, Lord Rutherford swiped the turban off Lady Greer’s head, then ran about the theater announcing that he was the sultan of…someplace.”

“Perkestra,” Lucia added softly.

“Where is that?” Sophie asked.

Eugenie shot her sister a glance of supreme annoyance. “I haven’t the faintest idea. And it does not signify, Sophie, really. The point of the matter is that the man is clearly not the sultan of any place.”

“Except, perhaps, Bedlam?” Sophie snickered at her own joke, but quickly stopped when she saw the others exchange despondent glances. “I am sorry. Did they really take him to Bedlam, then?”

“No.”

“
Geoffrey
was taken to Bethlehem Hospital,” Helen explained. “Lord Rutherford was taken to his home.”

“What?” Sophie clamped her fingers together so that the piece of toast in her hands exploded across the table in a spray of crumbs. “Geoffrey is in Bedlam?”

“I think it sounds much nicer when you refer to the hospital by its proper name, Bethlehem. Peaceful, almost.” Mrs. Bayles patted her daughter’s hand. “And your father will have him out soon, I daresay.” She wiped the excess crumbs off her fingers.

“How in the world… I thought Lord Rutherford was the crazy one.” Sophie brushed crumbs across the tablecloth with a look of mild distaste.

Eugenie glanced at Lucia again.

This time Lucia felt it incumbent to smile and put her friend’s uneasiness to rest. “Geoffrey rather outdid him last night.”

“What? How?” Sophie demanded.

“If you’d stop interrupting,” Eugenie countered, “we might be able to tell you.”

“Yes, well.” Sophie waved her knife again. “Go on.”

“I told you not to do that!” Eugenie glared at her.

“Who’s interrupting now?”

“Girls, enough. Can’t you see this is hard enough on your guests,” Mrs. Bayles nodded at Lucia and Helen, “without your constant bickering?”

Both Eugenie and Sophie dipped their heads in silence for a brief moment.

“Now then,” Sophie snapped her head upright again, “you said Lord Rutherford professed to be a sultan?”

“Yes,” Eugenie responded with equal vigor. “But Geoffrey claimed he was really the, uh, a thief, wasn’t it? Redbreast or some such?”

“Redcloak,” both Lucia and Helen corrected. Lucia immediately looked down at her plate.

“Redcloak?” Sophie swallowed. “Who in heaven’s name is that?”