Anne Barbour (6 page)

The patient smiled graciously. “Of course, dear lady. It shall he as you wish.”

“Yes, it will,” she replied, a martial light in her eye. Why was it, she wondered somewhat dizzily, that she felt constantly obliged to spar with this man? He was helpless, for heaven’s sake. Flat on his back in bed. Yet she persisted in seeing him as some sort of threat to her well-being. He had already seriously impaired her peace of mind, for no good reason that she could discern. Now she gasped a little as the laughter in his eyes flowed into hers with a gentle assault. His gaze shifted almost immediately to Mariah.

“And you are Miss, er, Bredelove—although we have not been properly introduced.”

“That’s Mrs. Bredelove. I, too, am a widow, Mr. Smith, and—

“Mrs. Bredelove is my cousin, Mr. Smith—my third cousin,” Catherine interposed, “as well as my very dear friend. She agreed to come to live at the Keep after the death of her husband in the Peninsula. It is she who manages things here, and I do not know what I should do without her.”

Mariah laughed. “Actually, we divide the labor. I take care of the house, and Catherine looks after the estate.”

“Looks after the estate?” echoed John in some surprise.

“Yes,” replied Catherine, her amusement apparent. “As in overseeing the Home Farm, keeping the accounts, seeing to the maintenance of the tenants’ cottages, and all the rest.”

“But do you not retain the services of a bailiff?”

“Oh, yes.” Catherine laughed. “For Grandmama has put her foot down when it comes to supervising the planting and harvesting. She thinks it improper for a lady to ride atop a hay wain, although there is nothing I like so well.”

An image flashed before John of the graceful Miss Meade, tendrils of hair curling about tanned cheeks as she strode along the furrows, pitchfork in hand, like a goddess of the grain. Something in him leaped in response, and he found his fingers itching to plunge them into the glorious mass of her hair, to breathe in the glowing energy that radiated from her. Shaken, he turned back to Mrs. Bredelove.

“Your husband lost his life in Spain?” he asked quietly. “Where?”

“He died in a skirmish outside a small village near Abrantes.” Marian’s voice was soft, and her eyes very bright. “And I don’t know what I would have done but for Lady Jane and Catherine.” She reached to clasp the hands of her two friends.

John, watching, felt his throat tighten, and with an instinct he barely recognized as defensive, he derided the scene inwardly. Unfortunate, he thought, that females so tended toward the mawkish. These three believed themselves to be the most devoted of friends, but just let the self-interest of one of them conflict with that of one of the others, and see how fast their affection for each other would disintegrate.

He did not pause to ask himself what, in the life that was so stubbornly hidden from him, had caused this cynicism. He only knew that to trust one’s welfare to another was to court disaster.

The ladies stayed but a few moments longer before Catherine rose.

“I think we must take our leave,” she said, noting John’s pallor and the dark smudges under his eyes. “I fear we have tired our guest with our chattering.”

He protested, but was forced to admit the truth of her statement. His day’s adventure had taken its toll on his body, and he was aware that his eyelids were drooping. With a promise to visit him first thing in the morning, they trooped out of the room.

Catherine, who exited last, turned at the doorway. “Sleep well, Mr. Smith.”

“Thank you, Miss Meade.” He smiled sleepily. “I hope, you, too, will sleep well. I look forward to seeing you in the morning.”

To his surprise, he realized that he meant the words sincerely. Miss Meade, her spectacular assets aside, was a most unusual woman, and he was glad to have made her acquaintance.

He picked up the history book and began to delve further into the glory that was Rome. After just a few moments, however, his eyelids drooped beyond his ability to keep propping them open, and he set the book on his bedside table with a thump.

Blowing out the candle, he lay staring into the darkness. If he were forced into a layover on wherever he’d been going, he reflected, he could not have asked for a better bivouac. Feeling a laudanum-induced drowsiness creep over him, he nestled into his pillows and muzzily contemplated his course of action for the next few days.

Tomorrow, he’d see about getting that crutch, then he’d take a look at the rest of Winter’s Keep. Perhaps he could turn his stay here to some advantage. Then he’d make his way to the stables and see how Caliban was getting on. After that—

He sat up in bed, sleep forgotten, as the significance of his last sentence sank in.

Chapter Four

Caliban! That
was the name of his horse. He had remembered! And his own name? Why, it was Justin Belforte, of course. How could he have forgotten? Lord Justin Belforte, and he was a major in His Majesty’s army, and—

And he was in the devil of a lot of trouble. Along with the sorry details of his life, the circumstances of his arrival at Winter’s Keep rushed in on him, and for a good quarter of an hour, he simply sat in the midst of his rumpled bedclothes, contemplating his situation in growing horror.

Lord, he thought, with renewed panic, he had to get out of here. He was supposed to be miles away by now, tucked safely in the fastness of Longbarrow. He was supposed to be hot on the trail of whoever had tried to implicate him in Rivenchy’s escape and had subsequently tried to have him snuffed. He was supposed—but wait a minute!

He almost fell to the floor in his haste to reach the newspaper that still lay on the bedside table. Yes! There it was, the story of his supposed demise in Spain. What a stroke of luck! He had been granted the opportunity of moving about London at will, as long as he maintained some sort of disguise. Nobody would he looking for a dead man.

Except, of course, for the person or persons who had arranged to have him attacked on his return to London. That man knew he was still among the living, and was taking great pains to remedy that situation.

Carefully, he tore the article from the paper. Looking about ‘the room, he finally slid the article between his mattress and the lacings beneath.

He continued his ruminations. In disguise, and with a bolt-hole to which he could return after his investigative forays, he should be able to manage to stay alive. Lord, he had to get to Robbie. Except, of course, that he had been forbidden to contact Robbie.

Well, he would have to go against Charles’s orders, just this once. He had, after all, nothing to fear from Robbie, who had been his best friend—almost his only friend—since the two had been at Eton together. Their relationship had begun one spring day when Justin had come upon a group of older boys tormenting a puppy. Justin, with a lamentable lack of foresight had attempted to interfere, and the boys had immediately turned their attention from the puppy to his own underfed self. If it had not been for the advent on the scene of one Robert McPherson, things would have gone very badly for the Duke of Sheffield’s little boy, Justin. Robbie, or the McPherson, as he had liked to be called, was a year older than Justin, and large and powerful for his age. Between the two of them, they had dispatched the bullies. An odd but tenacious bond was formed between the small, slightly bookish Justin and the big, rawboned Scottish lad, and they remained friends throughout all their school years and into the army. They had covered each other’s tracks and pulled each other out of more scrapes than Justin could remember, and he was prepared to trust Robbie with his life—as Robbie would trust him.

Justin’s thoughts returned to the subject of the bolt-hole. Who would have thought that an ill-advised and wholly unpremeditated good deed on his part would land him in this snug little paradise? His good angel, whom he thought had turned away in despair years ago, must obviously have been sitting on his shoulder on this occasion.

All he had to do was keep this amnesia thing going. Miss Meade would surely not boot him out into the cold, cruel world while he had no place to go. Particularly, with an injured foot. He must take care not to appear to heal too quickly.

He supposed it was an unpalatable trick to serve on his hostess. Miss Meade and her little household had been all that was kind to him. But then, unpalatable tricks were his specialty, were they not? A thoroughly bad man, his father had called him, and he’d done his best to live up to that dubious encomium. On the other hand, he was not actually doing her any harm. When it came time to leave, he would explain all, and he’d make sure no notoriety befell her as a result. He had a feeling that coming under public scrutiny would be devastating to her.

What was it, he wondered, that had happened to her, causing her to retire so completely from society? With her looks and her breeding and what was apparently a comfortable fortune, she should be a married woman with a pack of little ones at her heels.

He shrugged. Not that it was his affair. No, his affair was looking out after Number One, for if he did not, he might likely find himself either hanged for treason or dead in a ditch someplace, neither of which concepts greatly appealed to him. Hopefully, he would have the business completed within a week or two—a month at the latest, and then he would be on his way with a tip of his hat to Miss Catherine Meade.

He tasted her name on his tongue, and with it came a sudden, vague sensation of familiarity. Surely, they had met before, perhaps in that long-ago time when Justin had still been an acknowledged member of his family, gracing bails and routs with his presence.

He became aware that sleep was once again closing in, and he burrowed into his pillow. He smiled as he thought of Caliban, no doubt stomping and champing among the alien straw of his stable stall. Tomorrow would bring a joyful reunion. His last coherent thoughts, however, were of Catherine Meade. He was uncomfortably aware that duping her for an extended period of time would be no easy task, and it would take every ounce of skill and charm at his fingertips to stay ahead of her.

The next morning, as it happened, did not bring Miss Meade, but her henchwoman, Mrs. Bredelove, with a tray full of breakfast. He greeted her with a carefully crafted expression of woe on his features.

“Oh, my,” said Mariah, settling the tray on his lap. “I was going to ask how you’re feeling this morning, but I can see by your face that you’re not yet, ah, in the pink.”

He sighed. “No, indeed, ma’am. I am much better, but I had hoped to awaken this morning with a full complement of memory, and that has not happened. My mind is still a blank,” he concluded lugubriously.

“Well, now, that is too bad,” replied Mariah briskly. “Catherine will be sorry to hear of it. She said to wish you good morning, by the way, and she will be up to see you when the doctor arrives.”

“And when might that be, do you think?” asked Justin. “I am most anxious to view that horse in your stable. He must be, as you seem to think, mine, and I am hoping that the sight of him might jar my memory.”

“Well, now,” said Mariah, seating herself on the edge of his bed, “I hadn’t thought about that. I’m sure Catherine will get you a crutch or something—if Dr. Beech thinks it’s all right.”

“The, ah, the doctor and Miss Meade seem to be good friends,” said Justin casually.

“Oh, yes. Ann, his wife, and Catherine knew each other since they were children. Adam and Ann came here to live when Adam went into practice, just in time to ... That is,” she finished hastily. “Since his wife died five years ago, he’s been rather lonely and spends a lot of time here.”

“Ah, I see.” Justin nodded sagely.

“Yes, I thought you might. The doctor is a very good man,” she added inconsequentially.

“Mm, so he seemed to me—and an excellent physician, as well.”

Mariah rose. “Well, I’ll leave you, then. You asked when the doctor might arrive. I don’t know, really, but I should think you wouldn’t have to wait long.”

Justin thanked her, and after she had whisked herself from the room, addressed his meal. He was pleased to note that whoever had ordered its preparation had done so with a masculine appetite in mind. He made short work of the eggs, York ham, and beefsteak, washing it down with the tankard of ale that accompanied the little feast.

Replete, he availed himself once more of the chair he had used the day before as a crutch and made his way to the pitcher and basin that rested on a commode near the window.

Before he had finished his ablutions, Doris, the maid, appeared with the clothing that had been removed from him yesterday. Shirt, waistcoat, coat, and breeches had been cleaned, pressed, and mended, so that, while he was no more sartorially acceptable than he had been when he arrived, he was a least presentable.

Doris also provided him with an ancient, but gleamingly sharpened razor, so that, a half an hour or so later when Catherine entered the room, he felt ready to face whatever the day might bring. He was already grateful the day had brought him Catherine Meade, he thought jauntily.

Then he saw that Dr. Beech had entered the room behind her, bearing his medical bag and a crutch.

“Morning,” he grunted. “I see you’re up and about. Mariah reports you still have no memory.”

“I’m afraid not.” Justin hobbled weakly from the commode to the bed, easing himself into it with a spurious wince of pain.

“Oh, dear,” said Catherine solicitously. “The foot is still bothering you.”

“A little,” replied Justin, phasing the wince into a brave smile.

“Well, let’s have a look.” Adam Beech took Justin’s stockinged foot into his hands. “Mm. Swelling seems to have gone down. You still have some edema, but I see no reason why you should not try getting around with a crutch. Are these yours?” He indicated the boots that still lay near the foot of the bed, where they had been tossed yesterday.

Adam picked them up and assisted Justin in pulling them on. He held one in his hands for a moment, staring at it with narrowed eyes.

Damn! thought Justin. Those boots were by Hoby, and, though they were worn and scuffed after a hard year in Spain, their quality was apparent. They were the only part of his apparel he had not been willing to exchange for something shoddy and nondescript. Frankly, he hadn’t thought anyone would notice, but he’d apparently been mistaken. Beech was a good doctor, and good doctors didn’t miss much.