Allison Lane (7 page)

Symington!

Fosdale’s heart stalled.  Whitfield’s heir should have arrived a fortnight ago, but he had yet to appear – hardly surprising, given the weather this last month.  But what would possess the boy to drive through a gale?

“When did the tree fall?”  A glance out the window confirmed that this latest storm was gone.

“It could have been as early as noon.”

As much as ten hours ago.  He grimaced.  And the temperature was falling rapidly.  What was he to tell Whitfield if the boy was dead?

“Summon all the male servants,” he ordered, already striding toward the hall.  “We will need axes and shovels.  A wagon.  Plenty of lanterns.  And tell Mrs. Hughes to warm the best guest chamber.”  He prayed they would need it.

The tree had gone down a mile from the house, just inside the gates.  At first glance, the results appeared shockingly fatal.  One horse was down, pierced through the heart.  Another seemed crushed by a heavy branch, but its eyes blinked in the flickering light.

“Get him out of there,” he ordered.

Grooms sprang into action, unhitching the two leaders, who were shivering with cold and fright, then cutting loose the third horse.

“Over here!” shouted a footman.

The coachman was in the ditch, unconscious, though he was still breathing.  But he burned with fever from prolonged exposure.  The carriage must have been here since early afternoon.

They loaded him onto the wagon.

There was no sign of Symington, who must be trapped inside. Branches had cloven the carriage roof.  Others blocked any approach to the crested door.

“My lord?  Symington?” he shouted.

“He survived the impact,” a groom called from the other side.  “He was trying to break out.”

“Get this branch out of the way,” ordered Fosdale when he reached the window.

Two groundskeepers with axes soon severed the limb.  The inky interior seemed full of pine.

“Symington?”

No answer.

A footman climbed inside, breaking off branches as he went.  “He’s breathing,” he reported.

“Toss a rug over those sharp edges,” ordered Fosdale. 

Two men rushed to comply as the footman grunted from trying to shift Symington’s body. 

“Do you need another hand in there?” Fosdale called.

“There’s no room.”

One foot appeared in the opening.  Then a second.

“Easy, lads,” warned the head groom.  “Lift before you pull.  Don’t slash his backside.”

They eased Symington from the carriage and loaded him into the wagon.  A footman retrieved two trunks from the remains of the boot. 

Fosdale climbed onto the wagon seat, twisting to examine his visitor.  Symington was a well-set young lord who seemed to aspire to dandyism.  Such gentlemen were often ignorant and easily led.

If he lived. 

The boy had roughly set his own arm.  Blood covered his right hand.  He was soaked to the skin.  Several tears in his jacket showed where detritus had caught him.  Crusting around the wounds proved that he had been there for some time.

Stars glittered in the clearing sky, making the night feel colder than ever.

Fosdale’s face was grim as he led the procession into the house.  Mrs. Hughes could clean Symington and bandage his injuries, but she was far from skilled in a sickroom.  He could not expect the lad to escape without fever – or worse – and there was no doctor in this isolated valley.  If only Elizabeth would return from Constance’s sickbed.  Much as he hated to admit it, the chit was the most skilled healer available.

And her attendance on the patient was sure to bring his plans to fruition.  She must return.  She must tend Symington.  Even if he did not form an attachment to his nurse, compromise was inevitable under such circumstances.

He would send for Elizabeth immediately, he decided as a footman roughly stripped off Symington’s clothes.  Something clattered onto the floor:  a card case fit for a duke.  He fingered the jeweled lid, then extracted a card and set the case on the washstand.  His eyes gleamed as he noted the confirmation:

Earl of Symington

Orchards, Sussex

The answer to his every dream.  Mrs. Hughes must keep his guest alive until Elizabeth arrived.

* * * *

Where am I? 
Sedge cracked his eyes open.  He was cold.  Shudderingly cold.  He drew his legs up, fighting vainly for warmth.  Pain stabbed his arm.

He needed to escape, needed to … what?

But he couldn’t rise, couldn’t combat the bone-deep cold.

A clank of metal.  Flickering light.  Painfully turning his head, he spotted a woman before the fireplace, dumping coal onto a sizable blaze.  Another clank echoed as she stirred the fire, then returned the poker to its stand.

“Wh-whe-where am-m I?”  His chattering teeth made the words nearly unintelligible.

The woman turned.  “You are at Ravenswood, my lord.”

“C-c-cold.”

“Drink this.”  She poured liquid from a steaming kettle and held it to his lips.

He gulped greedily, but soon pushed the cup aside, exhausted.

“Rest, my lord,” she urged quietly, tucking quilts around him.  The cold receded.

“R-Rand-dolph…” he murmured as sleep closed over his mind, bringing troubled dreams of dancing trees and storm-tossed waves that swirled about his feet.

Pain prodded him awake.  The fire burned brighter.  Too bright.  The bitter cold was gone, replaced by broiling heat that sapped his energy, sucking the very air from his lungs.

He lay in a massive bed under a canopy embroidered with a ferocious raven.  Its beady eyes glared at him, mocking his weakness.

As he fought free of a mountain of covers, pain crashed over him in a searing wave.

Broken arm
, whispered a voice in his head.  His right hand traced the makeshift splint. 

Fetch help,
ordered another voice. 

Drink,
commanded a third. 

He rolled his head to clear it of voices.  Horsy screams and cracking wood reverberated through his ears.  And the hateful whistle of wind. 

Escape, escape, escape…

“Rest easy, my lord.”  A cool cloth wiped his forehead, bringing momentary relief.  A middle-aged woman loomed from the shadows, shrouding his burning body with the hated sheet.  “You must stay covered or you’ll catch your death.  It’s a wonder you still live, considering how they found you.”

He moaned.  “Escape … must fetch…”

“Lie quiet,” she ordered sharply, pinning his shoulders to the bed when he tried to sit up.

“Where … help…”  His voice slurred drunkenly as he searched for the word he needed.

“Shush, my lord,” she said.  “Drink this.  You can talk in the morning.”  Lifting his head, she held a cup to his lips. 

He gulped thirstily.  Only as the room began to dim did he identify the sickeningly sweet taste of laudanum lingering in his mouth.  Damn! 

“Randolph … help … Randolph…”

* * * *

“How is he?” asked Fosdale, entering the room an hour later.

“Delirious with fever.  And he keeps calling for his coachman.  I gave him a few drops of laudanum to keep him from thrashing about and aggravating the broken arm.”

“Will he live?”

She shrugged.

Fosdale berated himself.  It was too soon to tell, and Mrs. Hughes was not qualified to judge in any event.  Elizabeth should arrive before noon.  She would cure Symington, then wed him. 

Feeling a great weight slip from his shoulders, he took himself off to bed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Elizabeth glanced up when Fosdale entered the breakfast parlor.  Her instinctive wariness stiffened into apprehension when his surprise turned to delight – and to a cunning that set her teeth on edge.  His intentions were obvious.  She’d known there would be trouble the moment she’d spotted the wreckage on the drive.

“Good morning, Elizabeth.  It’s about time you returned.”

She nodded.  “Aunt Constance is finally on the mend.  Thank you for inquiring after her health.”

His face slipped into a scowl.  “I’ve more urgent problems than that old crone.  The Earl of Symington arrived yesterday.  But he was injured by the storm and is in desperate need of your healing skills.  You will look in on him after breakfast.”

“He is feverish, but not dangerously so,” she said in correction.  “Mrs. Hughes, Wendell, and Letty helped me set his arm.  While he must stay abed for a week or so, he needs no nursing beyond the attentions of a valet.  Mrs. Hughes can prepare whatever tisanes he might require.”

Fosdale frowned.  “He brought no valet.”

“Then loan him Sheldon or assign Wendell to help.”

“I will not tolerate inadequate care of so powerful a lord,” he snapped.  “You must see after him personally.”

“Enough.”  She glared at him.  “The only services he requires are shaving and grooming, neither of which I can provide.  I know very well why you wish me to enter the gentleman’s bedchamber, but I refuse.  We will not abuse the hospitality of this house to destroy the man’s life.”

“Elizabeth!”

“No.  I will not look in on him again.  I will not wed him.  If you think his life is in danger, then tend him yourself or send to Carlisle for a doctor.  I will not become involved.”

She rose from the table despite having eaten little.  Her appetite was gone.

Odious beast!
 
Selfish, manipulative fool! 
Why had she been cursed with so venal a parent?  She would have to lock herself in her room until Symington was gone.  And she would have to lay in a goodly supply of bread and cheese, for the moment he recognized her tactics, Fosdale would try to starve her out.  Damn him!  If only she had the funds to support herself elsewhere.  But even a cottage like Sadie’s was beyond her means as yet.

She stifled a wave of guilt, for she did not know whether Symington’s fever would prove dangerous.  He was not yet delirious, but only a few hours had passed since he’d been found.  It was imperative that someone keep a close eye on him, and she could only pray that Mrs. Hughes would recognize any problems before they grew out of control.  The housekeeper agreed that Fosdale’s plotting was wrong, but she was old and half blind.  And she tended to fall apart when faced with illness.

She nearly ran down Wendell in the doorway.

“Pardon me, my lord, but a man is at the door asking to speak with Symington.  He  claims—”

Elizabeth ignored the butler, escaping before he finished his report.  What luck!  Fosdale must deal with this visitor, giving her time to arrange for a long siege.  Symington might not be fit to travel for a fortnight or more.

* * * *

Randolph grimaced as he entered the taproom.  Raven’s Rook was hardly an inn, though the tumble-down building probably held two or three rooms for let.  Mostly it served as the local ale house.  His nose twitched at the rancid smell that even a smoky fire could not cover. 

But he should not complain.  His appearance matched the decor.  Despite his best efforts, mud streaked his clothing.  He had no cloak or hat, and he lacked identification beyond the money in his purse.

He sighed.  It was just as well.  Playing the arrogant aristocrat would gain him nothing.  He needed information about Anne.  But finding Sedge was even more urgent.  What had prevented him from fetching help?

This village could not be much more than a mile past the bridge.  Yet his coach was not in the stable yard, and the two boys playing in the road had not seen any carriages the day before, though rain might have kept them indoors.

Two men were grumbling about storm damage.  They drained their tankards and left. 

He sat down at the vacated table and ordered ale.  It would quench a growing thirst, ease his pounding head, and perhaps elicit cooperation by proving he was a paying customer rather than a vagrant.

He was opening his mouth to ask about Sedge, when his own name echoed from the corner.  He froze.

“T’Earl of Symington, it were,” said a man brawny enough to be a blacksmith.  “Falling tree flattened his coach.”  He shoved another bite of the inn’s breakfast into his mouth.

“Not quite,” protested a smaller man.  “The earl were still breathing – leastways according to Bobby Barry, who hauled him out.  They carried him up to the Manor.”

“Senseless, he was.  And t’coachman, too,” insisted the smith.  “Not likely to live, what with Lady Elizabeth gone to her aunt’s and all.  Nobody else up there has a lick of sense.”

A round of murmurs agreed with that sentiment.

Randolph drained his ale and went in search of the innkeeper.  He needed a horse.  They had to be discussing Sedge.  If he had been unconscious, the mistake in identity was inevitable.

Damnation!
  Why had he urged Sedge to fetch help when the roads were so bad?  There was nothing anyone could have done.

“Skewered, he was.”  The voice followed him out the door.  “Or so claims one of the grooms.”

Dear God!

The proprietor was sitting at a desk.  Explanations would waste time he couldn’t afford.  He had to see Sedge.  Why had no one summoned a doctor? 
Nobody else up there has a lick of sense. 
Was he already dead?

At least Anne’s confusion gave him a ready explanation for his presence.

“Lord Symington was supposed to meet me here,” he said without preamble.  “But I just heard that he was injured.  Where will I find him?”

He frowned.  “And you are?”

“Mr. Randolph.  Where is he?”

“Ravenswood.”

“Would you have a horse for hire?”  The innkeeper was glaring suspiciously, so he offered the first explanation that popped into his head.  “My own disappeared after tossing me in the river last night.”

Pulling out his purse did more to assuage suspicion than his words, he realized when the fellow’s eyes lit.  No one cared a whit about his business.  Negotiations produced a broken-down beast for only four times normal custom.  But he was too anxious to care.  If Sedge died, he would never forgive himself.

Ravenswood was easy to find.  The gates were only a quarter mile beyond the village.  Lacking any idea of how far the village was, Sedge must have turned in there to fetch help.