Danger Wears White (7 page)

“I know,” he said then, and panted as if he’d run for miles.

She used the old sheet to wipe some of the sweat from his chest and face, but she daren’t touch the wound. The suppurating mess had become so bad so fast that she could hardly believe it, but they didn’t clean bullets before they fired them.

When Young George returned, he carried a bucket of fresh water, clean rags for bandages, and another cask of small beer. “Best ’e drinks, miss,” he said. “’E’s sweatin’ it out too fast.” He’d also brought another tankard. “We need to keep ’im clean. Listen, miss, if I ’old him down, can you clean him up?”

She swallowed. She too had seen her share of injuries, but never had they affected her in this way. Fearing for his life, she grabbed a rag, soaked it in the water bucket, and wrung it out.

By then, Young George had Tony pinioned by the simple expedient of climbing on the bed, straddling and clamping Tony’s lower body between his thighs, and grasping Tony’s elbows. That held the wound rigid enough for Imogen to work on.

Before she joined the scramble, she paused to unhook and remove her gown, leaving her in her fancy petticoat, stays, and shift. Plenty for modesty. She’d worn as little when she’d labored in the fields when they were short of hands. She had no time for embarrassment.

If her bosom fell out of her stays completely, she wouldn’t care. She only concentrated on cleaning the wound, eliminating every trace of the evil liquid that had risen like a demon from hell to plague them

After the first few passes of her cloth, Tony tensed and arched up. He’d have cried out if Young George hadn’t had his hand clamped firmly over his mouth. She only shot a terse glance at Young George and nodded.

The flesh around the wound was reddened and risen, forcing the edges apart. A good thing in a way because they couldn’t let the wound close until all the badness had gone. Putting everything else out of her mind, Imogen swabbed, tossing the soiled rags to the floor, and scrambled back to get fresh. More seeped out, and she put her fingers either side of the hole and squeezed. Evil yellow liquid spurted out, and if she hadn’t had a cloth ready, it would have struck her. She ignored the mess, snatched another cloth, and kept going.

Without warning, Tony’s body went lax and he slumped back, unconscious. Pain or delirium had the better of him. Young George released Tony, and Imogen worked on him more efficiently, now Young George was free to pass the damp cloths and dispose of the old ones.

Tony’s chest moved up and down in a regular rhythm, and Imogen straightened up, pressed her hands to her aching back, and examined her handiwork.

Although the wound was red, it was a healthy red. She’d done it, removed all traces of corruption. She wanted to thrust her fist into the air in triumph, yell her victory. At one point, she’d feared she’d have to cut away the flesh, but the infection hadn’t taken hold that deeply. They’d got to it before it had a chance to form the red lines that signified the poison was spreading around his body. She’d cleaned and cleaned until pure blood had welled up, and then she’d concentrated on cleaning and waiting until the bleeding had lessened enough for her to bind it loosely. They weren’t out of the woods yet.

“You should get to bed, Miss Imogen. The maids’ll be up soon.”

She glanced at her servant, her friend, the man she’d grown up with. His mid-brown hair was plastered to his skull and his broad face was pale, but triumph shone in his eyes, an emotion that must be reflected in hers.

“We did it, George.”

“We did, miss. Now get going, or someone will see you. I’ll stay with him today, if you would be so kind as to tell my da’ where I am.”

“Yes, of course.” They could say Young George was ill, or busy somewhere else on the estate. That would work fine, especially since the house was busy with its exalted guest.

Damn, the guest! She’d have to rise, be pleasant,
entertain
him. Although none of this was his fault, she resented Lord Dankworth for being here. Without that, she could have told her mother she was needed on the estate and disappear for the day.

She ran a few plans through her head, but none of them worked. If she pleaded illness, maids would check on her through the day and she’d have no opportunity to check on Tony. She trusted her maids, but all staff gossiped, except for the Georges.

She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him there while she entertained Lord Dankworth. On her way back to her room, she considered bringing Tony out of hiding and installing him in a bedroom. But her mother would probably talk, and she didn’t know if she could trust Lord Dankworth. He was a prominent Jacobite, but that could mean anything. As many factions lay inside as out, and she didn’t know him well enough.

No, Tony was safer where he was, although if his condition worsened, Imogen wouldn’t hesitate to bring him out of hiding and call a physician.

Her mind still racing, she ripped off her clothes and threw them in the corner of the room, ready for the laundry. Her gown was reasonable, but the petticoats and stomacher were probably ruined, soiled with blood and pus as well as heavily creased. She shoved them in a corner of the clothes press. She’d have to deal with them herself if she didn’t want questions asked. Scrambling into her night rail, she made her preparations and then waited.

She must have fallen asleep, because when the knock came at the door, she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, and to her shock, it was ten in the morning. She had never lain in that long before. Startled, she jerked awake and put a hand to her tousled hair.

A maid put her head around the door. “Madam, your lady mother asks if you are ill?”

She laughed. “No, indeed. Tell her I am well, and I will be in the parlor in twenty minutes.”

Her mother must have roused early to greet their guest, because she rarely left her rooms before noon, as if she were living in the middle of fashionable London. Not that she’d ever managed to do so. They’d come straight here from Rome when Imogen was a baby. York was the farthest they’d managed, and Imogen had gone there under protest, concerned the laborers wouldn’t plant the barley straight.

The expense of the visit and the attendant costumes her mother insisted she needed still made her blench.

Finding something a little above her usual day wear proved easy because of that trip to York and the occasional ones to Lancaster. Although the petticoat to the apricot silk was somewhat creased, if she turned it around it wasn’t too bad. Her hair, brushed out and wound up into a bun, made a reasonable show, and she even found a string of amber beads to wear. She had to tack a ruffle to the edges of her shift. She didn’t usually bother with lace elbow ruffles but her mother would notice if she sported her usual linen ones. Good lace could cost a king’s ransom, but it was pretty.

Standing before the spotted mirror propped up by her linen chest, she made a reasonable show. Probably not enough for a London drawing room but perfectly adequate for her mama.

Instead of using the Long Gallery, she went the proper way, down the big stairs to the great hall and through the door at the end to the main rooms of the house. Big mullioned windows let the March sunlight in, and it cast the breakfast parlor—now, sadly, cleared of viands—into a bright, welcoming place. This was one of her favorite rooms in the house, together with the library.

Voices came from the half-open door of the downstairs drawing room, a grand name for a jewel of a room. The upholstered chairs and the decoration were her mother’s improvements. Modern paneling painted a pretty pale blue covering the old timbers. A harpsichord, usually a dust-gatherer, stood in one corner, but today it was being used. The painted top and sides were opened, and Amelia posed there, playing something pretty.

Lord Dankworth sat on the big sofa, holding court. The news that the son of a duke must have raced around the district faster than a carrier-pigeon could have managed, because most of their neighbors sat in Imogen’s parlor, drinking tea and consuming dainty little cakes and bread and butter.

In town, visitors usually restricted visits to half an hour. In the country not so, because people came farther. Never had Imogen longed more for the half-hour rule.

After greeting everyone, she went to sit with Amelia, to turn pages or some such excuse, but his lordship called her back.

That was the start of her ordeal. She sat next to him for most of the day, either here or walking slowly around the part of the house her mother considered presentable. She had little option for her mother blatantly pushed them together.

Nobody commented on her tardy arrival, and when she tried to excuse herself to check on various household tasks, her mother gave a tinkling laugh and declared that the servants were quite good, considering they had such a small pool of available staff to choose from.

At one point her parent suggested a stroll along the Long Gallery. “For while it cannot rival the glories of a house like Chatsworth, we are tolerably pleased with our poor effort.”

Climbing up the stairs to reach it, Imogen made as much noise as she dared, raising her voice and stamping her feet, just in case Young George was asleep or Tony was delirious again.

But all was silent, and she could explain the portraits to his lordship. “This is my Elizabethan ancestor,” she remarked, coming to stand in front of the gloomiest picture, of a man standing against a black background dressed in a dark brown suit. The only light parts of the painting were the man’s lugubrious face and his huge ruff that presented his head like a pig’s head on a plate. Why nobody had painted an apple in his mouth she’d never know, except the face was too high to easily reach. If his lordship stretched, he could manage it. He paused outside the painting, which unfortunately was situated right next to the panel that led to the secret rooms.

Imogen heated, and her breath caught in her throat. Panic invaded her stomach, tying it into knots. She had to say something, shuffle her feet, something. Oh why didn’t he walk on? This was a terrible portrait. The other guests chatted quietly. Too quietly.

“You wouldn’t know that the man in this painting created all this.” She waved around, indicating the gallery. “Of course when he built it, most of the lines were straight, but by the time he died they’d begun to warp. They used green wood.”

“It looks brown to me.” He smiled and some of the company tittered. The highly polished timber was indeed that color.

“It refers to the state of the wood. There was too much moisture in it. That meant that it dried unevenly.” Oh, stupid, she shouldn’t have explained his lordship’s sally.

He listened gravely and then smiled. And she hated him. He’d been teasing her. Of course he knew what green wood was, and he’d led her on. She’d always hated people teasing her and now she flushed to the roots of her hair. “I’m sorry.”

His smile softened and he moved closer. “Don’t be. I find you refreshingly charming. And I agree. It’s strange that the stern man of this portrait was responsible for this. Don’t you ever want to live in a house with parallel lines occasionally displayed?”

“No,” she answered distinctively, but realized he probably did, so that would be impertinent. “That is, I don’t miss it, and there are some in the newer part of the house. Parallel lines, that is.”

“Of course. Perhaps one day you’d grace my father’s house with your presence. We would be charmed to greet you.”

While Imogen took that as a general politeness, her mother exclaimed with obvious eagerness, “Indeed, we would be delighted!” thus turning a vague wish into an invitation. She didn’t want it. She wouldn’t go.

“London first,” Lord Dankworth said. “I have a longing to see you in the ballrooms of Mayfair. Do say you’ll make an appearance this season.”

She’d say anything if he would just move on. Thankfully, when she stepped forward, so did he, although his tread wasn’t as heavy as hers. Carefully she kept her head away from the panel, holding her pose stiffly so she should not be tempted. Except that she was. Beyond that piece of wood was one man who could be dying, and his attendant who was probably holding his breath while he waited for them to pass.

Just as they walked past, she heard something. A muffled thump. Had Young George dropped something?

Imogen cleared her throat and stamped, offering a weak smile to Lord Dankworth. “I should get my shoes attended to. I think they’re too big.” He probably thought she was demented because she delivered her words of wisdom far too loudly.

“Indeed, my lady. You doubtless have a dainty foot.” His smiling glance said he wanted to see it, but she saw more than amusement in his slumberous gaze. Oh hell, had he noticed? And her reaction might have made her culpable. But what would he make of such a sound? It could be a mouse, or something shifting.

“Timbers move all the time in these old buildings,” she said.

“I noticed,” he replied drily. “My sleep was punctuated by a series of cracks so sharp that at first I thought someone had opened fire on us.”

Imogen’s mother joined in the complaints. “Indeed, I have never accustomed myself to the odd noises old buildings make. My sleep is frequently disturbed by the sounds. I do not know why my late husband didn’t have the whole house demolished and a new, modern house built. I constantly requested it of him, but he took no notice.”

“I will build you one somewhere else.” Imogen swore she would if it killed her. Or she would buy one of those boxes people were so fond of these days, a square-shaped house with square-shaped rooms.

Any man she married might take it into his head to demolish this house, and with it, her heart. She loved it, couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. And when she was alone with her love, she’d be as happy as a person could be.

No more guests she couldn’t abide, only those she liked. Spinsterhood? She couldn’t wait.

Having affirmed her deepest desire, Imogen reached the end of the gallery and led them along her part of the house, the second oldest part. “The great hall was built first, of course,” she told them, into her stride now, “and then the solar above it, which is now a bedroom.” She could pass for a guide, the housekeeper who showed people around great houses for a gratuity.