Amanda Scott (11 page)

The maid bobbed a curtsey, but before she could reply, the young man by the fire leapt to his feet, sloshing ale from the tankard he held. “By Jove, Lady Ramsbury, am I glad to see you!”

Sybilla smiled. “You must be Mr. Sitwell. I am very grateful that you sent for me.” She indicated the earl with a casual gesture. “This is Ramsbury.”

Sitwell stood straighter, clearly shaken by the information, but recovered rapidly and, setting his tankard down, strode forward to shake hands. “How do you do, sir. We … that is, Bran … Well, we didn’t expect to see you here, and that’s a fact,” he went on in a rush.

“I believe you,” Ramsbury said. “Tell us about the bear.”

“Never mind the bear,” Sybilla said, stripping off her gloves and stepping nearer the fire, rubbing her hands together in an effort to warm them quickly. “First tell me how badly my brother is hurt. And where is he? I want to see him at once.”

“How is the bear?” Ramsbury asked.

She glared at him. “Pay him no heed, Mr. Sitwell. Where is my brother?”

The maidservant spoke up. “I’ll take you up, m’lady. The poor lad’s room be just at the top of the stairs yonder.”

“Thank you,” Sybilla said, turning to follow her when she realized that Ramsbury was at her side, she said abruptly, “There is no need for you to accompany me. Stay here with Mr. Sitwell and have some ale or something.”

“No, Syb,” he said, taking her hand and tucking it in the crook of his arm. “I’ve no doubt Brandon would be offended if I did not pay my respects. Do you come with us, Sitwell?”

The young man had been watching them nervously. He shook his head. “No, sir. Room’s too small for a crowd. I’ll just finish my ale, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no,” Ramsbury assured him. “We don’t mind a bit.”

Sybilla gritted her teeth, but she had no idea how to stop him from accompanying her. Sitwell’s attitude and the maid’s had made it clear to her that her brother did not hover at the brink of death, but she could not be easy of mind until she saw for herself that he would recover from his wounds.

When they reached the landing, the maidservant opened the nearest door and put her head in. “Visitors, sir.” She stood aside, and Sybilla stepped quickly past her.

“Brandon, my love, how badly are you hurt?”

The slim, fair-haired young man in the bed was propped up on a pile of pillows, reading a book, which he promptly put aside. Grinning at her, he said, “I knew you’d come. Hope you didn’t have a devilish trip.”

“Of course I came,” she said, bending to kiss him. “Mr. Sitwell’s letter frightened me witless. I expected to find you at death’s door.”

“No such thing,” he retorted with a laugh. “Just a trifle down pin. Mind, I thought I’d taken a real rasper when that damned bear sank his teeth into me, and my leg bled like a river in spate where he tore the flesh, but the worst was when he pulled me off his back and lunged at my throat. I put up my arm, of course, so he got that too, but if the others didn’t—”

“Manningford, for God’s sake, shut up!” Ramsbury snapped when Sybilla turned white as a sheet, clutched at her own throat, and swayed where she stood, her eyes glazing as the images her brother described leapt only too clearly to her mind. The earl’s tone steadied her, but she was nonetheless grateful to feel his strong hand at her elbow.

Brandon had not seen him enter the room behind Sybilla, and he started visibly at the harsh command, then demanded, “What the devil is he doing here?”

“He was with me when Mr. Sitwell’s letter arrived,” Sybilla explained. “What happened, Brandon? How came you to be mauled by a bear, for goodness’ sake?”

The young man shrugged, and when he winced, she realized that his shoulder was bandaged beneath the baggy nightshirt he wore. “Nothing to worry about,” he said, laughing again but casting a wary eye toward the earl. “Only a wager. Sitwell dared me to ride the damned beast into a dinner party. I did it, too. Old Nolly was tame as a kitchen cat until the lads began roaring at him. I rode him right up to the table though, before he’d had enough and managed to pull me off his back.”

“Told you it was a lark,” Ramsbury muttered at her side. “Damned young whelp. I’ve a good mind—”

“Hush, Ned,” she said, still watching her brother. He seemed to be well enough, but he was very pale, and she could not be easy again until she had seen his wounds for herself and knew they were being properly tended. But when she informed him of her wishes, he shook his head, his blue-green eyes atwinkle.

“I’ve got a good sawbones looking after me,” he said. “Not one of your London men, but good enough. Don’t mind telling you, I thought I was done for when they pulled the damned bear off me, but the lads soon had it under control and the doctor was there in a twink. Sitwell sent off that letter before we knew I should do.” He seemed about to say something more, but glancing at Ramsbury again, he fell silent.

The earl said, “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to send another letter, explaining that you were not at death’s door.”

“No, why should I? I knew she would want to see for herself, after all. And I cannot think what business it is of yours, in any case.”

Sybilla, feeling Ramsbury stiffen beside her, said, “Ned, I will require a bedchamber and a sitting room. Will you speak to the landlord, please?”

When he did not agree at once, she looked at him, her gaze meeting his steadily. He shrugged. “As you wish.”

When he had gone, Brandon said pettishly, “Why did you bring him with you? I thought we were long since rid of him.”

“I told you, he was at the house when Mr. Sitwell’s letter came. Once he learned what had happened, he insisted on coming with me. He is my husband, Brandon. I could scarcely tell him he couldn’t come.”

“Why not? You generally speak your mind, as I recall.”

“Yes, but Ned does not always heed my wishes.”

“Dammit, Sybby, you ain’t thinking of taking him back!”

“No, I am not. Nor do I wish to discuss him. I wish—”

“You can’t take him back! The fellow’s a nuisance. Why, he’s always putting his long nose in where it don’t belong, and I daresay that with the least encouragement, he’d even beat you, if he hasn’t already done so.”

“He hasn’t,” she said, striving to retain her calm. “I don’t wish to discuss him. I want to see your wounds, so stop behaving like a child and turn back that blanket.”

“Well, I won’t,” he retorted. “And if you ain’t thinking of taking him back, what was he doing sniffing around in Bath? It ain’t his kind of town, not by a long chalk.”

“He was visiting his Aunt Lucretia,” Sybilla said hastily.

But her brother shook his head. “Hasn’t visited her in years that I know of. No reason to begin now. Cut line, Sybby. He wants you back, and when he crooks his damned finger, you’ll go, and then he’ll start ordering us all about.”

“He’s never ordered you—”

“Much you know. I just chose not to heed him.”

“Oh, Brandon, if he ever wanted you to heed him, you would have no choice in the matter.”

“Pooh, I’d like to see him try. But you’ve just answered me, have you not? He’ll beckon, and you’ll trot along like a good, obedient wife.”

“I will not! If you must know, he came to Bath to accuse me of borrowing money from his mother to pay your debts, so there!”

“What debts? I never asked you—”

“I know, but someone borrowed money in my name, and Ned wouldn’t believe me when I said I didn’t do it.”

“Well, I think it’s damned offensive of him,” Brandon said, but his tone was sulky, and when Sybilla looked at him more closely, he glared at her, adding, “Well, it is offensive. What’s more, I haven’t asked for a sou, and I don’t intend to.”

But now she recognized his expression as one of guilt and realized that he had probably intended to ask her for money. By telling him of Ramsbury’s suspicions, she had effectively prevented him from making his usual request. Still, there were bound to be expenses he could not ignore.

She said quietly, “Mr. Sitwell seemed to think you would require funds to pay for the doctor and your lodging here.”

“Well, I don’t,” he retorted huffily, regarding her with the defiant air that had been his since childhood. “Didn’t I tell you, not ten minutes since, that I rode that fool bear for a wager? I won, after all. I can pay my shot well enough.”

“But surely—”

“I don’t need your damned money, Sybilla, and so you can tell your precious Ramsbury! He don’t know all there is to know. Even if I hadn’t won the wager, I’m well enough to pass. Now, go away and leave me to rest. My leg hurts damnably.”

She looked at him closely, noting the color that had leapt to his cheeks and the way he refused to meet her gaze. He was healthy enough, she decided, turning away toward the door. Then she smiled to think that he actually thought she would believe he had all the money he required. She would see that Ramsbury paid his shot at the inn, and the doctor, at least.

T
HE MAIDSERVANT WAS ON
the landing when Sybilla stepped out of Brandon’s bedchamber. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady,” she said, curtsying, “but ‘is lordship said ye’d be wantin’ ter refresh yerself afore ye sup. I’ll show ye t’ yer bedchamber.”

“Thank you.” Sybilla followed the woman, still reflecting on Brandon’s odd behavior. But by the time she had entered the comfortable bedchamber overlooking the rear yard of the inn, she decided his attitude was due to nothing more alarming than his dislike of Ramsbury. Thought of the earl drew another thought upon its heels, and she shot a look at the maid. “Where is his lordship’s chamber, if you please?”

The woman shook her head, sending a bolt of alarm racing through Sybilla’s body. But then the woman said, “Only other bedchamber not bein’ used be at the top o’ the house. Not a room for the likes of him, and so I told him, but he insisted you should have this room to yourself, m’lady. Said you didn’t sleep easy after a journey. Thoughtful, he is, not like most.”

Sybilla didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until it came out in a near whoosh of air, but she collected herself at once and said, “Yes, he can be thoughtful when it suits him. Is there hot water in that ewer?”

“Aye, m’lady. Will there be aught else?”

“No. How long before supper will be ready?”

“Not half an hour. ’Twas already on the hob for the young lads, but missus will be stirrin’ up a bit more, since company’s doubled, as ye might say. His lordship said ye’d be wantin’ yours served before the fire in yon coffee room.”

“I should prefer a sitting room,” Sybilla said. “He was to have arranged for one.”

The maid shook her head. “Bless ye, m’lady, we don’t run to sitting rooms, not bein’ a house what caters to quality folk.”

“Very well, then the coffee room will do.”

It occurred to her then that it might still prove difficult to keep Ramsbury at arm’s length, so she was very glad to see that young Sitwell was with him when she descended to the coffee room half an hour later. Both men rose, then sat again when she told them to do so. Noting the three place settings on the long table, she raised her brows.

“Do you not dine with my brother, Mr. Sitwell?”

He shook his head. “Went off to sleep right after you left him, ma’am. Leech said he ought to sleep as much as possible, so we decided not to wake him. He can eat any time, after all.”

“Yes, I daresay he can.” She glanced at Ramsbury, who was regarding her from under his brows, a mocking gleam in his eyes. Looking away quickly, she moved to the fireplace, holding her hands out to the blaze. “How lovely and warm this room is.”

“Is there no fire in your bedchamber?” Ramsbury asked.

“Oh, yes, but it probably had not been going for very long. The room was chilly. This is much better.”

“Sitwell has told me the doctor means to visit Brandon this evening,” Ramsbury said then. “He also says they have been informed that the lad will be fit enough to travel by the day after tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” she said, turning to face him. “We will take him back to Bath with us.”

“The phaeton is scarcely—”

“Don’t be daft, Ned. We shall hire a more comfortable carriage for him, of course.”

“Begging your pardon, Lady Ramsbury,” Mr. Sitwell said diffidently, “but I am not altogether certain that Bran will wish to go to Bath.”

“Brandon will do as he is told,” she said firmly. “I must be certain that his wounds do not become infected, and I know well that he will not look after himself properly.”

“But we had plans to—”

“Your plans must wait, I’m afraid,” she said. “They certainly are not so important as his health.”

“But—”

“Do you play piquet, Mr. Sitwell?” Ramsbury asked gently.

“Aye, of course, but—”

“Then perhaps you will honor me by playing a hand or two while we wait for them to serve our supper.”

Mr. Sitwell looked from Sybilla’s set expression to Ramsbury’s politely inquiring one and shrugged. “As you wish, sir. I shall be happy to play. There are cards in the drawer of that table by your left hand, I believe.”

“So there are.” Ramsbury glanced again at Sybilla, and she returned his look with a grimace before turning back to the fire.

She paid little heed to them after that, pulling up a straight-backed chair to the fire and sitting, watching the leaping flames, letting her body relax and shed the tensions of the day. So lost in thought was she that she did not hear the maidservant approach, and started when the woman spoke.

“A glass of wine, mistress?” She held a tray with one glass upon it.

“But I didn’t …”

“His lordship ordered it, ma’am. Said it wouldn’t come amiss.”

Sybilla glanced at Ramsbury to see that he had a tankard in his hand. Sitwell had another. She shook her head to clear it and accepted the wine. A few moments later, the landlord entered with a heavy platter, and their supper was served.

The meal was plain but well cooked, and before they were done, Sybilla became aware of increasing fatigue. By the time the doctor arrived, it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. Dr. Martin was an elderly man with a cheerful expression and merry blue eyes, and he seemed pleased to meet her. Shaking his head, he said, “These young scamps nowadays—one never knows what next they will do. Daresay it gave you a fright, m’lady, but he’ll recover quick enough, and there’s little danger of infection after all that bleeding, you know. Got him all stitched up, we did, and poured a whole bottle of mine host’s best brandy over the lot. Good stuff, with never a lick of duty paid on it, I’ll be bound, so it ought to see him through.” He chuckled, then patted her arm in a familiar manner that would have been unheard of in a London doctor, and added, “He will be right as a trivet in no time. You’ve my word on it.”