Emily Hendrickson (20 page)

Dru gave him a pitying look, then swept from the room, leaving Gregory Vane to amuse the pretty Belinda while Harry Metcalf enthralled Lydia with his civility. Dru observed that Lady Felicia had turned her back on Lord Brentford and was flirting with Lord Ives. Well, perhaps a bit of competition would aid her cause to ensnare Adrian, Lord Brentford. Somehow Dru doubted it. He did not strike her as a fish ready to be reeled in, even by an expert “fisher” like her ladyship.

She found Lady Brentford, Lord Osman and the others in the little parlor. On the walls of this room hung magnificent tapestries depicting the various muses in classical garb. Above the hearth, where a small fire burned, was a fine mantel on which was carved exquisitely detailed musical instruments. The Turkey rug was of muted colors that harmonized beautifully with the tapestries. It was one of Dru’s favorite rooms in the house.

Lady Brentford and Lord Osman with Mrs. Twywhitt and Miss Knight played whist, while Sir Bertram and Lord Somers were deep in a game of piquet. Candles augmented the light from the tall windows, admittedly poor on a rainy day.

“Is there something I might do for you? Perhaps you would enjoy wine and biscuits? Or would you prefer a light collation be set up for you?”

Her ladyship exchanged a look with Lord Osman. “Why not both? I think we deserve a respite from our efforts to win a fortune from each other.”

“I shall see to it at once.” Pleased there was something she might do for Lady Brentford, Dru hurried along to the kitchen, where she made her request known to Cook and Mrs. Simpson.

“Bless you, dear girl. I wondered if they might be wishing for some victuals about now.” Mrs. Simpson began setting out trays upon which Cook proceeded to arrange dishes of cold food. They were attractively prepared and presented a colorful sight to tempt the most jaded palate.

Two pigeon pies and a galantine of chicken was supplemented by fresh breads, cold sliced ham, and a variety of cheeses. Her ladyship’s favorite macaroons had pride of place on the larger tray.

“Will Priddy see to a table?”

“Don’t worry your pretty head. Now that I know it is wanted, we can set about it at once.”

She was thankful to be away from the other younger people for a time. She hadn’t known what to think when Lord Brentford had wrapped his arms about her in such an intimate manner. Odd, it had not bothered her a bit when Gregory Vane copied him. It was Lord Brentford, Adrian, who had set her pulse racing, sent her feelings topsy-turvy. She scarce knew if she was on her head or feet!

It hadn’t helped that he had teased her so. What evil spirit had prompted
that,
she couldn’t imagine. But she thought it rather impertinent of him. Surely he must know that she was constrained from replying as she wished, since his mother employed her!

Pausing by a window that looked out to the rear gardens and the aspect beyond, she reflected that it would not be long before Lady Brentford decided she did not need Dru any longer. It would not be easy to leave this beautiful home—and home it was. While it had everything a palace might, it also was a lived-in place, comfortable and pleasant. There was not the formality and coldness Dru associated with a palace— not that she had ever been in such a place. It was an image from what her younger sister Tabitha had read aloud about the great homes as described in one of Father’s magazines.

Mrs. Simpson caught up with her at that point. “I’ve set out a cold collation in the breakfast room, Miss Herbert. I thought you might be willing to suggest the young people enjoy a bite to eat. There is something about a rainy day that makes a body hungry.”

“I will be happy to do that for you,” Dru replied, reluctantly giving up her solitude for service she felt expected of her.

Lord Brentford joined Dru when she entered the drawing room.

“You look as though you have been given a commission.”

Dru gave him a speculative look. “Mrs. Simpson has set out a cold collation in the breakfast room for our consumption. She asked if I would suggest they”— Dru nodded to the others in the room—”might enjoy a light meal of sorts.”

Dru watched Lord Brentford engagingly summon the others to partake of a nuncheon to sustain them for the afternoon. She decided it would be difficult to think up entertainment for days on end, especially when the weather was so unkind as to rain.

“You look wonderful,” he commented, breaking into her thoughts.

“I believe I will take a walk after we eat. It is tedious to remain in the house all the day.”

“You could catch cold. It
is
raining.”

“I am neither sugar nor salt—a bit of rain will not harm me.” She thought his expression at her words amusing.

“But on the other hand, you might melt.”

“I melt? Never.” Dru turned away from her nemesis to coax Lydia and Belinda to join her in the breakfast room. Where they went the men followed, save for Lady Felicia and Lord Ives, who were deep in conversation. At least, he was. She was laughing and teasing and carrying on in a silly, affected manner Dru thought excessively stupid.

There was little doubt from the frequent glances in the direction of Lord Brentford that Lady Felicia attempted to make him jealous. Lord Ives seemed to censure her.

Dru was near the doorway when she heard sounds of arguing. Lady Felicia was in a rare tantrum. What was curious was that Lord Ives answered her back in no-nonsense terms. Dru couldn’t make out the words and didn’t intend to try. It was nothing to her if those two had a disagreement.

Angry steps were heard. Dru suspected Lady Felicia would storm up to her room in a fit of rage.

And then a bloodcurdling scream tore the air.

Dru dashed to the stairs. At the bottom of the steps, Lady Felicia was crumpled in a heap, unconscious, a purplish lump rising on her forehead.

“Fetch me a flannel and cold water,” Dru ordered one of the maids who stood gawking. Dru gingerly straightened Lady Felicia’s limbs, taking careful note that nothing appeared to be broken.

From behind her Lord Ives murmured, sounding most remorseful, “We argued. I never intended this to happen.”

Dru wanted to ask what he
had
intended, but the maid hurried to her with a basin of cold water and a face flannel, and the thought slipped from her mind. Quickly, Dru dipped the flannel in the water, wrung it out, and then applied it to that nasty lump on her ladyship’s forehead. A glance behind Dru revealed that not only Lord Brentford, but also everyone else attending the house party, had assembled to stare at the unfortunate victim of the stairs.

“How badly is she hurt?” Lady Brentford inquired anxiously.

“I do not know. Is there a doctor nearby?” Dru wondered aloud.

“The nearest one is several miles away. I’ll fetch him.” Lord Brentford stepped forward to gaze down at the pink-and-white beauty sprawled on the steps.

Dru barely caught his next words, and she doubted if anyone else heard them at all.

“It is the least I can do—I am her host.” He turned away to head to the rear of the house.

Dru wanted to tell him that the beauty’s temper probably had more to do with her fall than anything else.

Once Dru determined that the main injury to Lady Felicia had been the knock on her forehead, she enlisted the help of two stalwart footmen to carry the beauty to her bedroom. Dru followed immediately behind them. As she walked up the stairs, she could hear the others drifting back to the breakfast room and the small parlor to most likely discuss the dramatic turn of events.

In the appropriately pink-and-white bedroom, so fitting for the pink-and-white beauty, Dru turned down the covers of the large bed, motioning the footmen to place the woman there.

Her ladyship’s abigail bustled in upon hearing the soft noises in a room that ought to have been silent. To her credit she didn’t scream. She gave Dru a horrified stare, then approached the bed with cautious steps.

“What did she do this time?”

“I wasn’t there, but I surmise she had an argument with someone, and when she turned to go up the staircase she fell, hitting her forehead against something— perhaps the banister? I am keeping a cold cloth on this rather nasty lump.”

The little maid had followed with the basin of cold water, placing it on a bedside table at Dru’s nod.

“Best undress my lady before she comes to,” the abigail suggested with brisk capability.

Dru agreed. Between the two of them, they eased off the finery Lady Felicia wore.

Never before had Dru seen such a profusion of lace on a petticoat or stays so exquisitely crafted. The nightdress the abigail brought forth to put on her ladyship was without a doubt made of the finest cambric ever woven. Rows of tucks and lace enhanced the delicacy of the gown.

Studying the face now reposing on the fine linen-covered pillow, Dru could appreciate her beauty. No lines of discontent marred her expression. Indeed, that face was far too still for Dru’s liking.

“I best find her a vinaigrette. I do not like her being out of the world like this,” the abigail muttered before hunting through a drawer in the dresser by the window.

Several passes under Lady Felicia’s nose resulted in a fretful twist of her head. But her eyelids remained shut, and she gave no other sign of rousing.

Dru went to wring out the cloth. She paused to stare out of the window at the rain-lashed scene beyond. Poor Lord Brentford was riding out in this weather. The maid reported in awed tones that the groom told her the master had dashed into the stables, saddled up his horse, and before anyone could argue him out of it, was gone.

And now he was tearing through the horrible rain to fetch a doctor. She hoped he wore not only his thick greatcoat but a waterproof cape as well. Otherwise she could have two patients on her hands. She had no illusion that anyone else would tend an invalid.

She turned from the window to survey the still figure on the bed. It was odd. True, the stairs could be dangerous if a body didn’t pay attention. But each step was covered with a sensible piece of carpet. There had been no reason for Lady Felicia to trip— unless . . . Dru castigated herself for thinking ill of Lady Felicia when she was unconscious and flat on her back. One thing in favor of her being unconscious, the lady couldn’t sting anyone with her sharp tongue.

“How does she do?” Lady Brentford inquired, coming into the room to stand at the foot of the bed. She surveyed the patient with a worried frown.

Dru shook her head. “She moved her head a bit when her abigail waved the vinaigrette under her nose. Otherwise she has been as you see her now.” Dru glanced at the mantel clock, noting how slowly the time passed. It could be hours before the doctor would arrive.

“It is a puzzlement to me how she slipped and fell. All of the carpet pieces are firmly tacked down. Lord Osman checked them just to be certain.”

Dru debated as to whether she ought to say anything, then cautiously said, “I believe she had been arguing. She does have a bit of a temper. Perhaps she spun around to go to her room and simply tripped?”

“I have indeed noticed she has a temper. One does not tend to observe that when in Society. A temper is always kept tightly under control. It would never do for the dragons of Society to see a young lady— no matter her rank—indulging in a tantrum.”

“I imagine that would be ruinous,” Dru agreed. At least that was one thing the rectory girls were not guilty of doing. None had nasty tempers. Father would have scolded them out of it in no time.

“Do you wish a maid to take over for you? I am sure you do not realize how long you have been up here.” Lady Brentford stepped around to the side of the bed to study the unconscious woman who, in spite of the dark bruise on her forehead, still looked ravishing in her fragile nightdress, her dark curls clinging to her head in a beguiling manner.

Dru straightened her back, tired from bending over the bed. “I am quite fine, thank you. Since I was the one who came up with her, I should like to remain here—at least for the time being.”

Brave words. The abigail had disappeared, and the room was far too silent.

The marchioness left the room, and all Dru could hear was the rain pelting the window and the ticking of the clock. Even the fire made little sound. The hands of the clock moved with exasperating lethargy, crawling around the numbers with a pace a snail could beat.

She persisted at her chosen task, methodically wringing out the cloth when she refreshed it in the cool water. While she performed this task she thought about his lordship, wondering if he had reached the doctor, when they would be here. Day had changed to night.

It seemed as though she had stood by the bed forever when the door opened with an impatient thrust and two men entered. One, she knew.

“Lord Brentford!”

“This is Doctor Jenkins. I caught him just as he was returning from seeing a patient.”

The abigail entered the room silently to stand by Drusilla. Dru turned to her. “Perhaps you will stay with the doctor while he examines our patient?” Dru said nothing about the total absence of the abigail from her mistress’s bedside until now.

“Indeed, miss. You need some rest.”

Dru left Lady Felicia in capable hands, walking along the hall until she reached her room.

“Have you been with her all this time?” Adrian asked, having joined her in leaving the room.

Weary to the point where she thought she might fall asleep on her feet, Dru simply nodded.

“Best sleep for a bit.”

Dru thought she might easily sleep around the clock. She didn’t object when he opened her door for her, nudging her inside.

She paused, giving him an owlish look. “And you, my lord, will you change from your damp clothing and have a hot drink?”

“Do not worry about me. I am never ill.”

Dru gave him a skeptical look but shut the door in his face before flopping on her bed to bury her head on her pillow. She would have slept more soundly had she not heard a tremendous sneeze in the hallway as she closed her eyes.

Adrian sneezed again and cursed the rain, Lady Felicia, and the cold he feared he had caught as a result of his impetuous dash. The ride had been long, nasty, and extremely wet. His return in the damp chill of the doctor’s carriage was little better.